


days gone by

by velvetnoodle (goldfishsunglasses)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Conflict Resolution, Eventual Smut, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, M/M, Summer Camp, Well - Freeform, an exorbitant amount of mud, but no one tops so don't ask, but only briefly, dumb boys being dumb about their feelings, ex-fwb, past animal death mentioned, well post summer camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/velvetnoodle
Summary: It had all seemed so simple back then. They’d been cabinmates since they were 11, had spent six years spending the better part of the summer in each other’s back pockets, why wouldn’t they stay friends? Liam had even come up with the idea to meet up once a year and spend the weekend together doing stupid shit like they were teenagers again.No matter where they were, no matter what was going on in their lives, they’d have that weekend. Just the five of them, the dream team back together again. And they’d managed it too; gone to places Louis never thought he ever would. Ireland. Disney World. A bloody cruise. They had even planned a trip to Vegas to celebrate turning 21 with booze and gambling.And then Harry had to go and fuck it up for everyone.***Five years after their last day at Camp Vernon, Louis and the lads decide to celebrate by returning to the place that had brought them together all those years ago. Exhausted from work and desperately in need of a break, Louis arrives ten days before the others with the intention of fixing up the place. He’s not expecting any company, but, as Louis should know by now, things in his life rarely ever go to plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's finally here!! big huge giant thanks as always to [rainbowbaz](https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/) for being and amazing beta and britpicker, [amandaisnotwriting](http://amandaisnotwriting.tumblr.com/) for the second beta and [cosyblack](http://cosyblack.tumblr.com/) for all your help <3
> 
> i hesitate to call this a WIP as the entire fic is about 75-80% complete but i decided to go ahead and post the completed first chapter as i needed a final push to finish via external motivation :P there isn't a set post schedule but it will be finished soon!
> 
> thank you for joining this journey and happy reading ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> [[spotify playlist]](https://open.spotify.com/user/goldfishsunglasses/playlist/7DHg8ZPCSXFPsocHKWtfkN?si=djv7KoTtTtyoTW5A6I8Adw)

“So, what’s the plan again?”

Louis switches his phone to speaker and sets it on a cardboard box. Liam’s voice has a slight echo as he says, “We’ll be there on Friday morning. You’re handling the food, right? Or should we bring stuff? Just in case?”

“Excuse you, Liam,” Louis huffs, “I’m nearly 23; I think I can be trusted to do the shopping on me own.”

He can’t see his friend’s face, but he can still picture the raised eyebrow and eye roll his words have earned. “I know you can. Was just making sure.”

“And it’s just the three of you?” he asks. It’s a necessary precaution.

“Just the three of us in the car, yeah.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Just the three of you?”

“In the car. Driving up Thursday morning, yeah.”

“Liam.”

“I swear, Lou. It’s just us. Me, Niall ‘nd Zayn. Swear it, mate.”

“And you didn’t…” If it was actually possible, Louis would be wrapping the phone cord around his finger. But he hasn’t used a corded phone in ages, and there isn’t anyone here with him to pick up on that particular tell anyway. “You haven’t heard from him?”

Liam coughs. “You know we still talk to him. Niall and Zayn, too.”

“I know,” Louis replies petulantly. Only he didn’t, actually, but it’s fine. Totally fine. As long as Liam doesn’t get it in his head that he can mend things by bringing…

He wouldn’t.  

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get there earlier?” Liam’s asking now. “I feel guilty thinking about you all alone for that long.”

“It’s only ten days, Payno. I’ll be fine. ‘sides, I’ve got Thor to keep me company.”

“That Pat’s new dog?”

“Yeah.”

“Must be weird not to have Herc there, huh?”

Louis carefully turns a page in the scrapbook and finds a photograph of the familiar German shepherd sitting in between his Aunt Pat and her partner Carol. Hercules had served as a sort-of unofficial camp mascot, and he knows everyone took the death hard, even if the dog was thirteen and it was peaceful.

“Yeah,” he says. Because it really is. But they’ve got Thor now. It would be impossible to find a dog to replace Hercules, but if anyone came close it would be Thor. Thor is a good dog, even if he has a bad habit of stealing Louis’ trainers. And hiding them. And getting them covered in drool. Thor is a good dog, despite the trainer stealing, because he helps Louis feel safe out here in the middle of nowhere. He also gives good cuddles.

The second picture on the page also features Herc, but this time it’s an eleven-year-old Louis who’s clutching his furry neck and grinning enthusiastically. It was taken on his first day there, his first year, and he’d driven his mum mad with his excitement. (To be fair, it had been the most exciting thing to happen in his life thus far, so it wasn’t actually his fault.) (Honest.)

If it weren’t for the fact that his aunt owned the camp, and therefore let him attend for free, Louis would have spent his summers stuck in Doncaster with his four sisters instead of at Camp Vernon. He never would have left England, probably. And he never would have met his best friends. 

Liam’s talking again, but Louis isn’t fully paying attention as he looks down at the picture in his hands. It’s one of the five of them from their final year at camp, crammed together to all fit in the frame. They look so bloody young. Young, awkward, and spotty, with terrible haircuts (Louis), questionable fashion sense (Harry), and a recently-made pact to stay best friends forever, no matter what.

It had all seemed so simple back then. They’d been cabinmates since they were 11, had spent six years spending the better part of the summer in each other’s back pockets, why wouldn’t they stay friends? Liam had even come up with the idea to meet up once a year and spend the weekend together doing stupid shit like they were teenagers again. 

No matter where they were, no matter what was going on in their lives, they’d have that weekend. Just the five of them, the dream team back together again. And they’d managed it too; gone to places Louis never thought he ever would. Ireland. Disney World. A bloody cruise. They had even planned a trip to Vegas to celebrate turning 21 with booze and gambling. 

And then Harry had to go and fuck it up for everyone. 

He flips to the next page, catching only a glimpse of he and Zayn in a paddle boat, when the obnoxious roar of an engine shatters his quiet afternoon. The noise sets off Thor; he barks loudly, and won’t stop until Louis convinces him there’s no threat. Louis isn’t entirely sure there isn’t a threat, actually, because he’s not expecting anyone for at least ten days - his Aunt Pat and her partner are still in New Zealand, and he doesn’t remember her saying anything was on the calendar when he’d spoken to her this morning. 

“Liam?” he interrupts. “I gotta go. I think someone’s here.” He’d wait for a proper end to the conversation, only Thor has stopped barking, and Louis takes the rest of the steps two at a time, worried something’s happened to the dog. Pat would kill him if he let anything happen to her baby. He narrowly avoids falling down the next staircase, and stops once he reaches the bottom. The source of the noise is a motorbike; Louis only knows one person who rides a motorbike, and surely he knows better than to show his face here. 

Scowling, he stalks outside, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. Thor is sat calmly on the porch, which only serves to confirm Louis’ fear. 

Golden boots hit the dirt, and Louis watches as Harry pulls off his helmet and shakes out his curls. 

“Hey, Lou.” 

The hose he’d been using earlier to water the flowerbeds is lying close by, the steady dribble of liquid running across the porch reminding him that while the sprayer is locked, he forgot to turn the water off. Harry’s still standing there, smiling serenely like he actually has a right to be here. Like Louis might actually want to see his fucking face. 

Louis picks up the hose, which lets out an unexpected spurt that hits his trainer and soaks through the canvas immediately. “Fuck,” he mutters, and the answering chuckle makes his blood run cold. 

“You and those bloody trainers,” Harry laughs, because he’s always laughing. Even though it’s not funny, because everything is funny to Harry. Everything is a reason to laugh. 

“What are you doing here? Go away.”

“No.”

“Go away,” Louis repeats, harsher this time. He watches as Harry just squints and widens his stance, arms crossed now and expression defiant.

“Make me.”

“Alright,” Louis says, and raises the sprayer, squeezing the grip so hard that his nails dig into the palm of his hand. Harry must not realise his intention, or has severely underestimated how little Louis wants to see him today, because he doesn’t even try to duck before he’s hit in the face with water. Louis watches him sputter, and starts alternating between Harry and the bike, until he decides he’s wasted enough water, and halts his attack. 

Harry’s soaked now, all the way from his curls - which are currently plastered to his head - to his ridiculous boots, and he looks murderous. Louis smiles angelically at him before getting in one last blast of water, and scrambles inside before Harry can act on any of the threats he’s currently shouting. The last thing Louis sees before slamming the door shut is Harry Styles, in all his twattish glory, slipping on the wet grass and falling face first into what Louis suspects is a puddle of mud. 

It’s a terribly satisfying sight. 

**~ * ~**

 Harry won’t stop knocking.

“Lou? Lou, c’mon, let me in. I’m covered in fucking— Never mind, you know.” He sighs and knocks louder. “Lou!”

Thor whines anxiously, struggling in Louis’ hold because he loves meeting new people, and Louis is keeping him away from a new friend. Thor sees everyone as a friend; his size intimidates some, but his goofy personality wins them over in the end. Unless he’s in the mood to lunge, then Louis finds himself with an armful of wriggling Bernese mountain dog and a healthy respect for Pat and Carol. He can’t imagine the kind of energy required to take care of Thor all the time. He can barely handle a week or two. 

Not that he minds, really. Not when this dog is the reason Pat is letting him host the boys here this year, and not when Thor is the one making sure Louis wakes up early enough so he can finish everything on the list his aunt had left. Nothing gets you up and out of bed in the morning like a hungry dog who needs a wee. And also weighs close to eight stone.

_ Knock Knock Knock _

“Lou? Louis!”

_ Knock Knock Knock _

“Open the bloody door, you shit!”

_ Knock Knock Knock _

Louis squeezes his eyes shut and buries his face in Thor’s back. This is not the way he’d expected his day to go, not at all. Today was meant to kick off the week he’d set aside to fix up the camp before the other boys arrived. It didn’t need much, just a good cleaning and a few repairs; Louis is sure he can handle it. Plus, once he finishes, his boys will be here and they’ll spend the weekend relaxing in the place that had been so important to their childhoods. 

Leave it to Harry to make this all about him, even when he isn’t invited. He shouldn’t even know about Louis’ plans; someone must’ve told. Probably Liam. Liam’s always been shit at standing up to Harry and his big doe eyes. Fucking Liam. Fucking Harry.

Fucking hell.

Eventually, the knocking stops, and Thor stops trying to get free. Deciding to take it as a sign that it’s now safe, Louis tentatively creeps towards the front door and slowly pushes it open, causing the rusty screen to whine in protest. He doesn’t completely believe that Harry’s given up, but the noticeable lack of a bike on the front lawn cheers him up immensely. Harry has left, and Louis has won, and he can return to his peaceful, quiet existence. 

He’s just about to close the door again when he hears an unearthly noise, something animalistic and wild. For a moment he thinks he’s about to be attacked by a bloody  _ bear _ when he’s knocked out of the way by a very wet, very muddy, and  _ extremely cross  _ Harry.    


“What the fuck!” he screeches, “what in the bloody  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing?”

“What am I doing? What am  _ I  _ doing? You sprayed me with a garden hose, you twat! I fell in the mud! The  _ mud _ !”

“I only did that because you wouldn’t leave,” Louis sniffs. “It’s not my fault.”

“Not your—” Harry cuts off, and when Louis looks up the other man is staring, fish-mouthed and incredulous. He’d feel guilty if this was anyone else. But it isn’t anyone else, it’s Harry, and Harry needs to leave. Only he won’t take a hint. 

Which is fine, because Louis is nothing if not persistent. Ask anyone; he always manages to get his way. 

Always, apart from once.  

“I’m going to take a shower,” Harry mutters, and surely Louis didn’t hear him correctly. Surely Harry doesn’t think he’s going to shower here, that Louis’ going to let him…

Oh. Apparently, he does, if the way he’s working his way through the small cabin is any indication. Belatedly, Louis realises Harry’s stripping as he goes, throwing his muddy clothes in every direction, and now Louis is  _ livid.  _

He’d  _ just  _ cleaned that rug.    


“I just cleaned that rug!” he shouts, but Harry pretends not to hear him. Louis swears one of the bleeding socks was aimed straight for his face. It’s fine, though, it’s not like it—

The second sock hits its target, and Louis has had  _ enough _ . He picks up the sock between two fingers and stalks his way to the bathroom to give Harry a piece of his mind; something that proves to be extremely difficult, however, once the door is slammed in his face.

He pulls his leg back, fully intending to kick the door when he pauses, assesses the situation, and decides he’d rather not kick at this panel of solid wood with bare feet. He can’t kick Harry’s arse with a broken foot, after all.

The lad has to come out eventually; Louis just has to wait.

So, he waits. And waits. And… 

Fucking hell, Harry takes long showers. Somehow Louis managed to forget this, and Harry seems to have managed to forget how utterly shit the water heater is. Louis wants a hot shower tonight, dammit, and Harry isn’t going to take that from him. 

“Harry!” He knocks loudly and obnoxiously. “Harry! Open the bloody door, you wanker! No one invited you in! No one wants you here, I don’t want you—”

The door swings open just as Louis goes for his hardest knock yet, and he stumbles forward. Right into Harry. Right into Harry’s bare and dripping chest. Oh, fucking hell. He didn’t sign up for this. He didn’t sign up for any of this.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” he snaps as he rights himself, and Harry looks at him quizzically. 

“Sign up for what?”

“Nothing. Just… Why are you here? I didn’t call you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry’s reply is sharp, and Louis opens his mouth to retort but Harry beats him to it. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says next. “I’m here to help.”

“Help.” It’s not a question, but that doesn’t stop Harry from nodding in affirmation.

“Help.”

“I don’t need help.” And he doesn’t. He’s 23 years old, for fuck’s sake. If he needed help he would have asked for it. He doesn’t need help. “I don’t need help,” he repeats. “And even if I did, I don’t need help from  _ you. _ ”

“As if that’s stopped me before,” Harry snorts, and Louis wishes he hadn’t looked down just now. He also wishes he’d remembered that Harry preferred to air dry after a shower, and he really bloody wishes he’d looked away before Harry could catch him staring. He didn’t mean to stare - it’s not like the sight of Harry’s cock is unfamiliar. It’d just sort of happened, really, and now Harry’s looking at him with an awfully familiar expression. Like he’s the cat and Louis is the canary who’s just been caught… 

That’s a terrible analogy. 

Louis’ still staring at Harry’s soft cock. It’s like a car crash. This whole bloody situation is a car crash, and Louis can’t look away because he caused the bleeding thing, and…

That’s not a great analogy either.

He can’t stop staring. Harry’s still smirking. It’s altogether horrible. 

“Like what you see?” Harry punctuates his question with a little shake of his hips, and that’s enough to jolt Louis out of his cock-induced stupor. Now he just kind of wants the ground to open up beneath him. He wouldn’t have to answer the question, and he wouldn’t be forced to deal with Harry any longer. 

Thor would probably miss him, though. He doesn’t trust Harry to remember to feed him. 

“Do you even know how to take care of a dog?” he asks. It belatedly occurs to him that Harry’s got no context for his question, but it’s fine. Harry doesn’t deserve context.

“You don’t deserve context,” Louis says next, and Harry blinks once, obviously taken aback. 

“Are you okay? How long have you been alone out here? Do I need to call someone?”

“What are you implying, Styles? You think I’m mad? You think I’m mad, don’t you?”

“You are acting a bit odd, mate. To be fair.”

“Well,  _ mate _ , I’m not the one with my knob out, am I?”

Harry smirks. “Not yet, at least.”

“No.” It’s the push Louis needs to finally turn around, look away. He can’t show Harry his middle finger now, but that’s fine. That can come later. “No!” he shouts. “You don’t get to do this. You can’t just waltz back into my life and expect everything to be normal again. It can’t be like it was, Haz. It just can’t. No, okay?  _ No. _ ”

There’s a quiet “sorry” directed at his back, then the rustle of a towel. He chances a look over his shoulder and finds Harry’s covered himself back up. He looks apologetic, and Louis sighs. 

“You can stay,” he says. Harry grins happily, and Louis stubbornly ignores the way it makes his stomach swoop. “You can stay,” he repeats, “but only because I don’t know how to make you leave.”

“Cheers,” Harry says, still grinning as he shuts the bathroom door. Once he’s out of site, Louis turns around and softly bangs his forehead against the wall. Repeatedly, until he’s got a headache that’s sure to pale in comparison to the one Harry’s continued presence will cause. 

The next ten days are sure to crawl by, and Louis isn’t looking forward to it one bit. 

(Honest.) 

**~*~**

When Louis finishes putting away the photographs he’d abandoned earlier, he goes downstairs to find Harry cleaning up the mud in the front hallway. He stands a bit awkwardly on the bottom step until Harry notices his presence.

“Hey,” he says. “Thought I’d take care of this before the dog tracked it anywhere.”

“Thor. His name is Thor.” 

“Yeah? What happened to Hercules?” 

“He got old.”

“Shit.” 

“Yep.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, and he looks sad. Which makes sense, really. He’d loved Herc. They all had. 

Louis won’t be pulled in by that sad face, however, so once he sees to it that Harry’s got the clean up handled, he wanders off to the kitchen to fix something to eat. He doesn’t invite Harry, but he does leave a second Pot Noodle and a note on the counter for Harry, because he’s not a monster. He doesn’t want Harry to starve or anything; he just doesn’t want to go out of his way. Also, Harry doesn’t like Pot Noodles. A bonus. So.

He takes his food outside and sits on the porch steps with Thor stretched out nearby. It’s a gorgeous night; without the light pollution of a city, nearly all of the stars are visible despite the fact that the sky hasn’t gone completely black yet. The air isn’t too hot or too cold, his food is the perfect texture, he’s going to see his best friends in ten days. Everything is going perfectly. 

There’s a crash and a string of swear words inside. 

Well, almost everything. 

**~*~**

Harry comes outside a little while later when Louis is halfway through his second cigarette. He’s tempted to ask about the noises from earlier, but doesn’t want to give the illusion of, like, caring. So, he doesn’t say anything; just stares at a random spot in the distance and pretends like it’s the most interesting random spot in the universe. It almost works, until Harry’s inability to stay bloody quiet rears its irritating head, and he steps into Louis’ space and bumps their shoulders together. (Louis totally doesn’t flinch.) (He  _ doesn’t _ .)

“Chin up, Lou,” he says. “It’s not the end of the world.” Louis doesn’t respond, and Harry nudges a socked foot against his lower back. “Is it really so bad? Me being here?”

“Well,” Louis answers slowly, watching his pathetic attempt at smoke rings dissipate. “‘s not ideal.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise; said you could stay, didn’t I? Anyway,” he continues, “if you were properly sorry then you would’ve left hours ago.”

“Couldn’t ride covered in all that mud,” Harry points out unhelpfully.

Louis brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales deeply, not bothering with the rings this time around as he exhales. “Not with that attitude, lad.”

“I can leave. If that’s what you really want.”

It is what Louis wants. It’s exactly what Louis wants. He takes one last drag before stubbing the cigarette out in a potted plant. “I’m not actually going to make you leave, Harry. Christ.”

Harry has the decency not to look shocked, his face closer to pleasantly surprised and accompanied by that stupid bloody grin. Louis wants another cigarette, but chain smoking would betray his real feelings. It’s an unfortunate side-effect that comes from knowing someone for over a decade: they know too much about you. It’s impossible to keep secrets. 

To be fair, Louis hasn’t had to keep any secrets from Harry before. 

Thor jumps up the moment Louis stands, and sticks close to his side as Louis moves back towards the house. Harry doesn’t follow, just stands, awkward and pigeon-toed, on the porch like a bloody vampire. (If only, Louis thinks to himself, as that would make this load of bollocks easier to deal with.)

“C’mon,” he calls over his shoulder sweetly, “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.” His smile drops the second he turns around, and Harry scrambles to follow him inside. 

**~*~**

“A sofa? I’m sleeping on the sofa?”

Louis nods, working to keep a straight face as Harry eyes the piece of furniture dubiously. 

“Reckon I won’t fit,” he says eventually.

“Reckon I don’t care,” Louis shoots back, even though a daft part of him does. An even dafter part wants to invite Harry upstairs to share his bed. He absolutely needs to leave the room before he does something completely mad, like actually voice the bloody offer, but Harry’s still looking at the sofa apprehensively, leaving Louis to stand awkwardly with his arms by his sides. “It’s either this or bunk in the cabins.” 

“The cabins that haven’t been cleaned out in… what was it, five years?”

“Six,” Louis corrects him, and for a moment Harry seems to actually consider the option. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He crosses his arms and scowls. “You aren’t sleeping in the cabins; they’re disgusting.”

“Got proper beds, though,” Harry points out, as though cots are any much better than the bleeding sofa. As though he’d rather sleep outside (technically) than inside the main house with Louis. Where Louis doesn’t want him, obviously. Still, though. The cabins could be dangerous. Harry’s safer in here. On the sofa, though. Obviously.

Louis isn’t  _ that  _ concerned. 

He still isn’t a monster, though - his mum raised him better than that. So, he raids the surprisingly sparse airing cupboard for blankets and pillows, and even avoids the scratchy woolen monstrosity lurking at the very back. Only barely, though; he’s extremely tempted, but Harry might complain, and Louis just doesn’t have the energy to deal with that. Or make the journey to this cupboard more than once tonight. So he selects the softest blankets, the comfiest pillow - only one, he remembers - and the most decent looking pillow case he can find. 

When he returns, Harry’s sat on the sofa stroking Thor behind the ears.  _ Et tu, Brute?  _  he thinks meanly, and then immediately feels guilty, because Thor deserves all the ear stroking in the world, he does. He’s truly the best dog, Thor is. The happy loll of his tongue is enough to earn Louis’ forgiveness, and tamp down the petty bit of him that wants to demand Harry keeps his stupid hands off his dog. 

Can’t keep the upper hand while throwing a strop, he reasons. 

Harry accepts the offering of pillows and blankets with a small, sleepy smile that Louis refuses to return. He pats his thigh to get Thor to follow him to bed, and then fights the urge to look back until he’s halfway up the stairs, which is a mistake because Harry’s staring right at him. They lock eyes, neither blinking until Louis finally gives up - bloody contacts - and looks away. 

“Goodnight,” Harry calls to his retreating back, and Louis answers him with a wave. Thor is waiting for him at the top of the staircase after beating Louis there and gives him what feels like a judgemental stare. 

“Don’t,” Louis says. “We don’t like him, remember?” 

Thor barks in disagreement, and Louis scowls. “You’re too nice.”

“We don’t like him.” Louis repeats, and Thor barks again 

“You’re wrong,” he insists, since arguing with dogs is something he does now. Thor cocks his head. “Shut up. You are, and you know it.”

Even as he says it, Louis knows it’s a lie. Luckily for him, though, Thor is incapable of spreading his secrets. Hopefully. Assuming it’s not already written all over his face, clear as day. That, he supposes, is one upside of being alone with only Harry and Thor for company - no one can force his true feelings out into the open. 

He forces all thoughts of Harry to the back of his mind, and it works for a bit, actually. Until the moment right before he’s about to drift off when he remembers Harry on the sofa downstairs. It’s enough of a jolt to ensure that he won’t be sleeping tonight, and something else to add to the list of ways Harry’s wronged him.

As if it isn’t long enough already.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Harry looks younger in his sleep. To be fair, Louis thinks, when you’ve got a baby face like Haz does, it’s not exactly a feat. Still, he looks innocent and peaceful enough that Louis almost feels bad for what he’s about to do.

Almost. 

He’d come up with this plan roughly 15 minutes ago, when he’d come down the stairs to find Harry still passed out on the couch. It’d hit him right as he passed the bugle on the wall shelf, the same one used to wake the campers for years until Pat had finally -  _ blessedly  _ \- retired the bloody thing, that he could use this. It looks lonely on the shelf, which of course is what Louis plans to tell anyone who finds out what he’s done. Well, what he’s going to do. 

He takes a deep breath, presses his lips to the mouthpiece, and…

_ Pbbt _

Shit.

Louis tries again: inhales, closes his eyes, and prepares to shock Harry awake with the familiar sound that had plagued their youth. His lips touch the mouthpiece a second time and…

Somehow, his second go is even weaker than the first. The only one who even seems bothered by the noise is Thor, who whines frantically from the base of the stairs. Frustrated, Louis tries a third time. It’s still unsuccessful, and he’s breathing heavily from the exertion when Harry’s eyelids start to flutter. 

“Louis?"

“Who else?” he snaps, and remembers too late that he’s still holding the bugle. 

“Is that the wake-up horn?”

“It’s a bugle.”

“You coined that name, mate, not me.”

“Well, it isn’t a horn; it’s a bugle.”

“That’s a type of horn.”

“It isn’t,” Louis replies snidely, even though he might remember reading that somewhere. Which isn’t important, really, because Harry can’t have the last word. He can show up unannounced, fine. He can steal Louis’ shower, great. He can even use the sofa until he finally (hopefully) decides to fuck off for another two years, but he cannot - absolutely  _ cannot  _ \- have the last word. Louis won’t allow it. 

“It isn’t,” Louis repeats, absolutely not stalling. “You’re wrong,” he says, and when Harry opens his mouth to say something twatty, Louis abruptly turns and escapes into the kitchen. 

Harry’s speaking now, but Louis’ already shut the door, already sunk down until his arse hits the linoleum and his forehead’s pressed to his knees. Thor scratches at the door, but Louis is far too busy banging his head back until a headache forms and he’s got a proper reason to be cross. 

“Christ,” he mutters to himself. “Bloody hell, Tomlinson,” he groans, getting in one final thunk before ending the assault on his cranium. 

There’s something about Harry that turns him back into a teenager, and it’s going to get him in trouble if he doesn’t do something about it. Which is a brilliant plan, in theory. In reality, Louis’ got no flipping idea what to do. So he does the only thing that seems reasonable given his situation. He does what he does best. 

He makes tea. 

**~*~**

Louis notices something seems off at breakfast. Harry can’t seem to move without grimacing, and when he bends down to adjust the top of his sock, he exhales sharply through his teeth. Louis winces in sympathy, torn between asking what’s wrong and waiting for Harry to bring it up himself. In the end, he chooses the former, because he knows Harry, knows exactly how stubborn the other man can be, even in as much pain as he appears to be. 

“Is it your back?” he asks, because he remembers how much trouble it’s always given Harry. 

He remembers a lot of things about Harry, whether he wants to or not. It’s how he knows that Harry prefers his morning coffee black and his eggs fried, toast just this side of too crunchy. He also remembers the last time they saw each other, Harry’s face as he’d broken off their arrangement. 

Which is why breakfast is cereal and tea, and he’s half hoping Harry will ask, just so he can say no. Worrying about the state of another person’s back doesn’t erase the past, obviously, and Louis would rather eat glass than prepare a meal for Harry Styles.

“Yeah, it is.”

Louis frowns, and feels like a dick for leaving Harry on the couch with his back being the way it is, which is the only reason behind what he says next. Obviously.

“You can sleep in my bed,” he offers.

“That’s sweet,” Harry answers, “but I don’t want to put you out.”

“You wouldn’t be putting me out.”

“But where would you sleep?”

“With you. I mean—I mean in my bed. With you, uh, next to you, not with you, um…”

“No. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll survive out here. Probably just sleep on the floor. It’ll be fine.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not,” Harry says a bit stupidly.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Louis shoves his chair back and storms over to all but throw his dishes in the sink. He whirls back around, crosses his arms and glares at Harry. “I’ve got shit to do,” he says. “I don’t care if you join me or not, but you should wear something less twatty if you do.” 

He’s referring, of course, to the outfit Harry’s currently donning. It’s the same one he’d shown up in, which means he’d managed to find the washing machine after Louis’d left him alone the night before. It’s completely inappropriate for their current location, and he looks absolutely ridiculous. Only Harry would show up to camp in snakeskin boots and jeans that appear to be painted on. His shirt is unbuttoned far enough that the top of the butterfly on his abdomen peeks out, and Louis wants to do up those bloody buttons. (He definitely isn’t thinking about  _ un _ -doing them, nope. Absolutely not. Only the purest of thoughts here.)

“You really think I look like a twat?” 

Louis shrugs. “Maybe.” He ignores the hurt noise Harry makes, because looking back now would ruin his dramatic exit, and right now, that’s all he’s got. 

He spends the walk to the toolshed wondering if Harry might actually be allergic to buttons or if he’s just fucking with Louis. (Probably the latter.) For the first time in what feels like ages, he’s alone, and when he finds himself possibly, secretly, half-hoping Harry hasn’t brought any t-shirts, there isn’t anyone around to judge him. 

If. If, not when. 

_ Christ.  _

**~*~**

Everything is quiet. 

Not completely, of course. There’s still animals and bugs and the noises from the nearby lake, but the camp is located far enough from the main road - and the nearest town - that it’s a whole new level of quiet.

Louis adores it. Compared to home, it’s heaven. 

If he listens hard, he can almost hear the sounds of  _ camp.  _ Yelling and splashing and laughter, shrill whistles and singing and the crackle of the campfire. It’s been years - nearly a decade, really - but it feels like it was yesterday that he was a camper here, along with his four best friends. 

Well, three. Three best friends. 

He’d had four best friends, and now he’s got three, and he’s perfectly happy with that. 

Honest. 

His reminiscing is interrupted by the sound of twigs snapping, and Harry emerges from the trees. He must have taken the longest way from the main house to the shed, and Louis only just manages to stop the eye roll. Until he gets a better look at Harry’s outfit, and then nothing can stop it.  “What are you wearing?” he snorts.

“Shorts.”

“Those aren’t shorts. I meant normal shorts.”

“These are all I had with me.”

“Of course they were.” Louis’ powerless against the second eye roll. 

Apparently, Harry had packed normal t-shirts - even if this one was a tribute to boybands past. He’s paired his Hansen shirt with quite possibly the tiniest pair of swimming shorts Louis has ever seen - and that’s saying something. (The image of Harry’s bum in those yellow trunks is still in his wank bank, which is exactly as shameful as it sounds.)

Upon further inspection, he takes it back; the yellow ones are still shorter, but these are looser. And he suspects Harry isn’t wearing pants underneath, which is another problem altogether. 

“You can wear those today,” he says, “but tomorrow don’t bother coming outside unless you’ve got something that properly hides your knob.” He flushes because he’s basically admitted to staring at Harry’s knob, and turns his attention to the wall of tools so he doesn’t have to witness the smirk Harry’s probably sporting. “‘m serious,” he says, “it’s a shit idea, and you’re not getting special treatment just because you’re… you.”

“Like you’ve ever given me special treatment,” Harry mutters, and Louis laughs without humour. 

“You’ve got no idea, love. Absolutely no idea.”

Like a bloody dog with a bloody bone, Harry won’t let it go. “When? When did you ever give me special treatment?” 

“What, you want me to list every fucking example?”

“Well, yeah. Asked, didn’t I?”

“I can’t.” He can, he can list them all. But he won't.

“You mean won’t.”

Fuck. "I mean can’t. Too many to count, yeah?” 

“You look like a builder." It's an obvious attempt to change the subject, completely transparent. And Harry'd beaten him to it; he'd really wanted the last word here. Wanker.

“Does that get you hot?” Louis purrs, popping his hip out; the belt slips down his waist and the tools clank together noisily. 

“Of course not,” Harry shoots back, “‘’m just pointing out the obvious.” 

“That I look like a fit builder?”

“I never said you looked fit.”

“Ouch.”

“Lou… I didn’t mean…” He shakes his head as if to get rid of a fly. “What are these for then?” he asks, gesturing to Louis’ belt.  

“Builder things,  _ obviously _ .”

Harry looks adorably confused. “But you just said you weren’t a builder.”

“When did I say I wasn’t a builder?” Louis knows he’s being a dick. Louis also can’t stop himself once he gets going. This is a problem to be fixed at a later point. Probably.

“But you aren’t a builder,” Harry says, brow wrinkling. 

“Bloody hell, Hazza, don’t hurt yourself,” Louis laughs, stopping mid-giggle when he realises Harry’s gone silent.

“No one’s called me that in yonks,” he says quietly, and the silence is decidedly  _ not  _ comfortable this time. Louis bites back the urge to fill it - that’s his thing, after all; blustering his way through awkward silences by cracking jokes and taking the piss. 

Nine out of ten times, it works, but something tells him this is the dreaded tenth. 

It’s still quiet. Harry’s worrying at his lip now, looking uncertain, like he regrets saying anything. Louis wants to be that lip. No, Louis wants to bite that lip. 

It’s still quiet. 

“Other people called you that,” Louis tries, and Harry shakes his head. 

“Not like you did, though. Never like you did.”

“Alright.” 

There’s not much to say after that. The tension in the air threatens to choke Louis, but he pushes through and manages to complete at least three of the tasks on Pat’s list of repairs. His mood was not improved as Harry proved to be better at lifting than he was, but he wasn’t about to turn down the help. For Pat’s sake, obviously. And for the camp. And to get through the list faster,  _ obviously _ . Nothing to do with the way Harry’s biceps stretched the sleeves of his t-shirt. Or the flex of his back muscles. Not even the obvious tension in his thighs as he struggled to reach something on a high shelf. 

None of that. Genuinely, absolutely, really and obviously. 

_ Obviously _ .

The rest of the day continues in much the same way. Harry joins him for dinner this time, and scrounges a cigarette after. They smoke in relative silence as the sun streaks the sky with its final colours. Louis honestly doesn’t know if he should consider today a success, but it’s far enough from a failure that he’s got nothing to tease Harry for. It’s almost disappointing, really. 

He’s finished before Harry, who stays on the porch long after Louis goes back inside. Which is fine. They don’t have to spend every second together. Harry isn’t even supposed to be here; Louis was prepared to spend this time alone, after all. 

Only, now that Harry’s here… Well, his expectations have changed, is the thing. 

Expectations that Louis absolutely, definitely ignores. 

(If only he absolutely, definitely could.)

**~*~**

Louis’ only just climbed into bed when it happens. It’s not shocking, really. Between Harry’s obvious discomfort at breakfast, and the amount of heavy lifting he’d insisted on doing earlier, Louis is less than shocked when he hears the stairs creak and the sound of feet padding down the hallway to his room. The door opens slowly, the mattress dips, and Louis lets himself be jostled around a bit before he decides to say something. “Hey there, Curly.”

He can’t make out Harry’s expression in the dark, but it looks hard. “I’m only here because of my back; this isn’t about you.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” 

Louis rolls over and tries not to let on how thrilled he is about having Harry in his bed again. Because it’s a lot, this. So much. He buries his face in his pillow, shoving it deep until he can’t breathe and has to mask his gasps for air to avoid any questions. Or to avoid looking like some sort of weirdo. Although, he supposes, that ship has probably sailed.

“Is having me in your bed so horrible that you feel the need to suffocate yourself?”

Fuck. “No.”

“Do I smell?”

“No worse than usual.”

“Oh my God, Lou,” Harry moans. “Just go the fuck to sleep, okay? I can’t do this tonight; ‘m exhausted. You can go back to being a massive bellend in the morning, but  _ please _ . Just let me sleep.”

“Wow, rude.”

“Bloody hell, why.  _ Why _ .”

“Fine, you can sleep. It’s not like this is my bed or anything.” His words are less harsh than before, and he catches Harry blinking at him a bit sleepily before giving him a soft smile. 

“Goodnight, Louis.”

Louis scowls back, and, to his absolute horror, proceeds to sleep better than he has in ages.

**~*~**

It takes less than two days of Coco Pops, Pot Noodles and potato waffles before Harry finally breaks.

“We need real food.”

“This is real food,” Louis mumbles defensively around a mouthful of potato waffle. “Please don’t spout some health freak shit at me, H; ‘m not in the mood.”

“I’m not a health freak,” Harry replies, equally defensive. “I just think a little salad wouldn’t kill you.”

Louis swallows and picks up a fish finger. “I can’t take that chance.”

Harry makes a frustrated noise and points a fish finger in Louis’ direction. “Man cannot live on fish fingers alone.”

“I don’t. I eat other things.”

“Potato waffles.”

“Potatoes are a vegetable.”

“They bloody well aren’t. I need real food. I can’t do this; I can’t keep eating shades of brown. I need / _ real food/ _ .”

“No one is keeping you here, mate. You’re free to leave at any time.”

“We both know I’m not going to do that, / _ mate/ _ .”

“Fine,” Louis grumbles, stabbing at the last of his waffle with a spork. “We’ll go to the shop tomorrow.”

“See?” Harry grins, “that wasn’t so hard.” He takes a sip of his Ribena and glances at it contemplatively. “How did you even find this stuff here anyway?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh my God, Louis. Fucking hell. Did you really bring all of it with you?”

“No? Pat bought it in Albany. Do you really think I’m the kind of bloke to bring a case of Pot Noodles on holiday? Don’t answer that.”

Harry doesn’t, but the grin he hides behind his glass betrays his amusement and Louis huffs. That only seems to amuse Harry more, which is annoying. And distracting. He’d like to finish his tea before it gets cold, thank you very much. And eat his fish fingers like a bloody adult because / _ bloody hell/ _ he just bit his own finger and Harry needs to stop laughing.

But of course he doesn’t, and Louis is grumpy for the rest of the evening. He’s grumpy as Harry clears the table without being asked, and he’s grumpy when Harry steals the TV remote and he’s grumpy when Harry suggests they get breakfast in town tomorrow before they do the big shop. None of the places there will do him a cheese toastie, and he’d really like one all of a sudden. But very few places will do him a cheese toastie, and he’s tempted to shut Harry’s idea down. Only, he doesn’t

Which is… well— It’s… 

He can’t say no, okay? That’s just impolite. Probably. Fucking hell, everything is a mess.

(And his finger still really, really hurts.)

**~*~**

Louis hadn’t invited Harry into his bed again the night before. As it turns out, however, he doesn’t need to. 

Because, apparently, Harry has taken Louis’ initial invitation as an ongoing… Thing. He doesn’t blame him, really. It’s not like back problems just disappear or anything. So, last night Harry joined Louis in his nighttime routine, and then they fell into bed together without addressing the elephant in the room.    
Only…not the way Louis wants them to fall into bed together. They slept, and that was it. Louis’ perplexed, but not perplexed enough that he feels like he can confront Harry about it. And isn’t that just a riot? He’s afraid to communicate with his oldest friend, with his… ex-whatever they were. Friend.    
  
Harry is his friend. Friends share beds, right? But usually not without a reason. Unless Harry has a reason, then Louis supposes there’s nothing wrong. Yes, surely there’s a reason Harry has decided this is the new normal.

But that’s not a good thing, either, Louis realises. Remembers. Remembers, because honestly he’d forgotten. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not again, and now that it has, Louis was supposed to put up walls. Supposed to ensure that he wouldn’t get his heart broken this time. He’d had a ten-step plan and everything.

Well, consider step one failed, then. Steps two through ten aren’t looking good either.

Louis’ never been great with plans, if he’s honest. He’s also never been excellent at resisting Harry. Or temptation. Temptation and Harry. Though, both things are probably combined; Harry is the temptation he needs to resist. Only… Only it’s really hard, okay? Louis can’t help it, he’s only a man, after all. 

He sticks a foot under the shower spray to test the temperature before climbing in and letting the warm water run over his sore muscles. He’d got up early - much earlier than his unnecessary - unwanted - houseguest, to mow the football pitch. Well, soccer field, technically, but Louis refuses to refer to it that way. Something he’d been teased for at camp, but not enough to quit doing it. He’d had the lads to back him up, another bonus of not being the only camper from across the pond. 

They’d earned an unfortunate nickname because of that, actually, partly thanks to Pat putting them all in the same cabin. Someone - Louis can’t be arsed to remember who all these years later - had found it hilarious to refer to the five of them as The Beatles. The fact that they’d become known for participating in every karaoke night and talent show as a group hadn’t helped, but it was still a shit nickname. (Harry had loved it of course; Harry loved The Beatles, though. Something Louis could look past for the sake of friendship.)

Americans are wankers. Camp is one of the only things he likes about the states, if he’s honest. The people are just… Wankers. And it’s too big. And the weather is too hot. And he can never find his favourite foods, at least not before Pat discovered the import grocery in Albany. Truly a lifesaver, really. Not that Harry appreciates it, a betrayal as a fellow Brit, Louis thinks. Louis also thinks that Harry should just buy his own food if he thinks Louis’ is so terrible.

Well, he’s going to, actually. 

But the point is, he wouldn’t have to if he wasn’t such a snob.

Louis yawns and reaches for the shampoo, only it’s not on the little wall shelf where he left it. He feels around to make sure he didn’t miss it somehow, and then runs a hand over the windowsill in case Harry left it there; he’s well good at putting things back in the wrong places. Something bumps his shoulder, and he grabs blindly at the object. His hand connects with the familiar bottle of his shampoo. His shampoo that’s already attached to another hand. 

Louis screams. 

The shampoo bottle falls, and the intruder yells “fuck!” as it presumably (hopefully) lands on their foot. They swear again, and Louis recognises that voice. 

“What the f— Harry!” In his surprise, Louis turns around too quickly and feels himself start to slip on the wet tile. He flails, trying to grab onto something - anything - to stay upright. The shower rod is right there; it’s not ideal, but it’ll do. 

And that’s how Louis learns the rod is not attached to the wall. 

“Shit!” he squeals - a very manly squeal, thank you very much - and accepts that he’s going to fall, and it’s going to hurt. He prepares for the pain, but it never comes. Instead, he knocks into a warm body - Harry - who lets out an equally manly squeal as they both hit the floor. Louis is tangled in the shower curtain; the adorable smiling yellow ducks that had cheered him up so well not 15 minutes ago seem to be mocking him now. 

Seconds tick by as Louis silently fumes until Harry speaks. “Well,” he starts in the impossibly slow way of his. “That happened.”

“It certainly fucking did,” Louis shoots back crisply. He should get up, show that he’s okay and that Harry absolutely did not rattle him, only he’s too shaken to stand, and also Harry’s lying half on top of him, pinning him in place. Louis doesn’t want to draw attention to that fact, so he stays quiet, back to his silent fuming. 

“I thought it would be a laugh,” Harry says finally, breaking the silence once again, and Louis rolls his eyes, because of course he did. 

“And was it?”

“No. No, it was not.”

“Fucking Christ, H,” Louis sighs. 

Thor, ever the guard dog, eventually comes bumbling down the hall and joins the fray in what appears to be an attempt to save Louis from… whatever he seems to think is attacking his master. To be honest, Louis isn’t certain what that is, but he appreciates the thought. It’s comforting to know that if he was ever in real trouble that Thor would come to save him. Or maybe his protection only extends to shower curtain monsters. Louis hopes he never has to find out.

There’s a snuffling and a crinkle of plastic as Thor works to figure out where Louis is. He barks happily (and loudly) when Harry helps him peel back the curtain until Louis’ face is revealed and then promptly covered with dog slobber.

“Gross! Thor, no!” Louis scolds - a mistake, as when he opens his mouth, Thor takes it as an invitation to stick his tongue inside. Louis flails, but makes little progress in his escape as his arms are still pinned to his sides by the plastic shower curtain. Harry lets out a strangled cough that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed giggle, and Louis glares. 

“This is your fault.”

“You already said.”

“And you said it wasn’t a laugh.”

“It wasn’t,” Harry protests. “At least not until Thor showed up and started eating your face.”

“Oh, so that’s a laugh innit.”

“Well, yeah. You look ridiculous. And you’re still all soapy.”

“Again, your fault,” Louis grumbles as he finally manages to right himself. He reluctantly lets Harry help him fix the shower curtain rod even though it’s tempting to leave it off and make Harry shower somewhere else. Like outside. With a hose. 

(Which is absolutely not something he should think about while naked.)

Louis flushes and hides behind the curtain to quickly wash the rest of the soap off his body. When he gets out a second time, Harry is still fucking there and holding out a towel while with his eyes shut tight. It’s ridiculous, is what it is, but Louis still snatches the towel and wraps it around his waist. 

“Shower’s all yours,” he says. “You can open your eyes now; I’m decent again.” He doesn’t wait to see if Harry’s actually done it before he leaves. The shower is still running while he finishes getting ready; he assumes Harry’s in now and further assumes this means he’s got plenty of time to get ready, as Harry isn’t exactly known for his ability to get presentable within a reasonable amount of time. Plus, he’s just slow-moving in the morning anyway. So Louis takes his sweet time, and if he uses that extra time to make sure he looks his best, well, no one has to know. 

**~*~**

Louis isn’t expecting to find Harry in the living room once he finishes getting ready. He’d been expecting to be the one to wait for Harry, if he’s honest, and not the other way round. And, annoyingly, Harry still manages to look good. As always. It’s just not fair. 

Louis enters the room as loudly as possible before flopping down on the sofa next to Harry and peeking at his phone screen. “What are you playing?”

“Candy Crush,” Harry replies, making no move to hide the screen from Louis like a normal person would. 

“No one plays Candy Crush anymore,” Louis scoffs, and Harry doesn’t look offended, probably too busy trying to advance to the next fucking level or something equally pointless.

“Well, they should. It’s fun.”

“I bet you’re the kind of person who spends real money on it,” Louis teases, and then raises his eyebrows when Harry looks guilty. “Of course you have,” he sighs, secretly loving the flush that’s beginning to stain Harry’s cheeks. 

“I told you, it’s fun,” he says. “And I hate waiting for things.”

“Just admit you’re addicted.”

“I can stop whenever I want,” he says defensively.

“No time like the present.”

“Fine,” Harry snaps, and Louis watches as he deletes the app and holds up his phone so Louis can see his Candy Crush-less screen. “There. Happy?”

Louis frowns, because he hadn’t actually expected Harry to listen to him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I wanted to. Besides, it’s just a game. It’s not that important.”

It probably, actually, isn’t, but it still weighs on Louis’ mind during their journey into town. Harry spends the time fiddling with the radio and filling the silence with chatter that Louis’ half tuned in to. Harry doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully. Or he’s just not expecting Louis to answer in the first place, which Louis knows means Harry’s nervous. He doesn’t know what to do with that possible revelation, so he ignores it. Shoves it to the back of his mind and focuses completely on driving. 

Which he should probably be doing anyway, as it’s not exactly his favourite thing. Especially not on these bumpy dirt roads with their blind bends and ditches in the place of kerbs. He’s constantly afraid of encountering another driver on the road, as he doesn’t actually know what to do if that happens. Luckily that hasn’t happened yet. 

He glances at his passenger out of the corner of his eye, a reminder that his luck hasn’t been stellar as of late. 

**~*~**

“I told you they wouldn’t have any.”

“I never said they would; I literally never told you that you’d be able to get a bloody cheese toastie here. You knew you wouldn’t be able to, you know where we are, and you can’t put this on me. Everything else, fine, I don’t care. But not this.” Harry punctuates the end of his ramble by popping a spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth, the same spoonful Louis’d been eyeing the entire time Harry was talking. The fact that it didn’t end up splattered everywhere was some sort of scientific phenomenon, and by the time Harry is finished telling him off, Louis’ forgotten what he was even upset about in the first place. 

Oh, right. Cheese toasties. He isn’t quite sure this is the hill he’d like to die on, but nothing else on the menu sounds appetising. Except maybe eggs, but they probably won’t make them the way Louis likes. He’s somewhat regretting his decision not to order anything when his stomach growls, and he looks away quickly to avoid Harry’s knowing smirk. 

Their silence is interrupted by the arrival of Harry’s drink, and Louis whistles appreciatively. “Orange juice  _ and  _ a coffee? Really pushing the boat out there, lad.”

“I’m not… It’s not— Oh, you’re joking.” He looks relieved; more relieved than Louis would like him to look, so he kills the moment by swiping a strawberry from the little bowl next to Harry’s yoghurt. 

He chews it slowly, waiting for as long as possible to swallow as Harry finishes off what looks to be the largest cup of coffee in the state of New York. And Harry is the slowest drinker in the whole, like, world. Realising they aren’t leaving anytime soon, Louis takes the whole bloody bowl. Harry raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop him from polishing off the remaining berries. 

Finally, Harry’s swallowing the last dregs of coffee, and Louis works hard not to let out a sigh of relief. (Like, genuine relief. He gets bored if he’s in the same place for too long, Louis does.) They fight over the bill, but Louis eventually relents and lets Harry cover the check - this outing  _ was  _ his idea, after all - and rolls his shoulders before plastering on a grin. 

“Ready to do the big shop, Harold? I know how much you’ve wanted to get your mitts on some ‘real food’.”

“Are you ever gonna let that go?”

“Eventually,” he lies, and Harry doesn’t call him out on it. Their banter ends there, really, as Harry returns to his juice and yoghurt. Louis tries (and fails) not to feel disappointed.  

Before they leave, Harry nips to the loo while Louis gathers their things. He’s in the middle of figuring out how much to tip when someone taps his elbow and tells him his boyfriend is pretty as they pass him by. Louis is so rattled that he forgets to respond; the invasiveness of the comment barely registers. Instead, it’s the assumption that sets him on edge. Because, incorrect conclusion or not, he and Harry had looked enough like a couple for a complete stranger to notice. 

He forgets to pass on the compliment to Harry, and still keeps it to himself even after he remembers. Because telling Harry what was said means telling Harry someone thought they were boyfriends. And that… Well, that’s just not going to happen.

**~*~**

It happens again. 

Louis was innocently handing Harry items to set on the conveyor belt when he heard someone behind him say, “It took my husband and I years to achieve that kind of rhythm.”

Positive he’d misheard, Louis was tempted not to turn around, but his mum would have been well disappointed if he hadn’t. So he did, and found himself facing a grandmotherly looking woman smiling in his and Harry’s direction. His daft sounding “wha?” had slipped out before he could stop it and she’d gone on to explain how lovely it was to see two young men so in sync and perfect for each other. She’d called them an  _ adorable couple _ , and Louis had never wanted to be swallowed up by the ground more than he did in that moment. 

Harry, being Harry, had found it amusing. Louis had not, and it’d made the entire journey back to the camp awkward. Well, awkward for him. Harry hadn’t seemed to notice anything was amiss and Louis just wanted to forget it’d happened, so he didn’t bring it up again. But the interaction played on repeat in his head for the rest of the day, through the process of putting away their shopping all the way to the next task on Pat’s list: cleaning out the boathouse.

“What exactly are we meant to be doing in here again?” Harry asks.

“Cleaning, obviously. Sweeping, I reckon.” It hits Louis that they probably should have brought a broom, and he tells Harry as much. Harry, most likely to assist in Louis’ search, takes a step backwards and accidentally bumps into a kayak.

They both jump at the noise it makes as it starts to fall over, and Louis lunges forward to catch it just in time. The motion causes a ripple effect and other kayaks begin slipping down. Louis struggles to hold them all up and lets out a noise of frustration when he realises it’s a lost cause, and not even Harry’s valiant attempts at assistance can stop the inevitable. “Fuck,” he mutters. “ _ Fuck _ , these better not be scratched. Pat’ll be peeved.”

“‘m sorry,” Harry says quickly. “That was my fault; you can just tell her it was my fault.”

“No, it’s—” It hits Louis then that Pat doesn’t know Harry is here. Not that she’d mind, she and Carol always adored him, but she doesn’t know Harry is here. 

No one knows Harry is here, according to Harry. Louis hasn’t told anyone, and if Harry is telling the truth then no one knows he’s here. With Louis. Alone, just the two of them, and bloody hell, why is that realisation so shocking? It really shouldn’t be, it’s not like he doesn’t know he hasn’t told anyone, it just… slipped his mind a bit. 

He’s been distracted, okay? Harry’s very distracting. Harry is so distracting, it turns out, that Louis is paying more attention to the worried wrinkle on his forehead than the canoe in the middle of the floor. Louis seems to be doing an awful lot of falling this week; it’s terribly mortifying, and probably would be more so if Harry hadn’t seemed to match him fall for fall. The thing is, Harry’s meant to be the clumsy one. Louis’ usually steadier on his feet, but something about this week has thrown him off balance. 

That something is currently standing in the dim light of the boathouse in Chelsea boots and skinny jeans, curls falling free from the bun on top of his head as he holds out a hand to help Louis up. Louis allows himself to be helped, and pretends like he’s too busy surveying the area to speak to Harry beyond a quiet “thanks, mate.” He doesn’t get far before Harry calls his name like they aren’t in the same tiny shed. 

“What?” he asks, and looks at the spot where Harry’s pointing with raised eyebrows. “What’s that?”

“A nest.”

“Thank you, David Attenborough; I meant what kind of nest.”

Harry shrugs. “Bees? I dunno. Probably shouldn’t be in here, though.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“Poke it?”

“Fucking Christ, no?” He shakes his head in exasperation. “ _ Poke it. _ Honestly, Harry.  _ Poke it?” _

“Do you have a better plan, then?”

He doesn’t, but he doesn’t want to admit that. “We should google it.”

“I don’t have my phone.”

“Me neither. Should we go back to the house and look? I could call Pat as well; she might know better.”

“Better than the internet?”

“Obviously.” 

Louis isn’t sure which one of them actually knocks the oars over, but those details don’t matter once he realises the nest has been hit. It’s split open now, and there’s small yellow buzzing things streaming out. He doesn’t know what yellowjackets sound like normally, but they definitely sound angry now. They need to fucking get the fuck out.

“Get that door open!” he shouts at Harry. “And run!”

Harry doesn’t question Louis’ order, and he’s the first one out the door. Thanks to his bloody endless legs, he gets a decent lead and Louis loses him for a moment before turning a corner and spotting Harry scrambling up the side of a tree. Well, scrambling up the ladder nailed to the side of the tree, but it’s still not something he expected to see. Harry isn’t dressed for that kind of activity, either, but the threat of being stung has obviously pushed that thought to the back of his mind. 

“What are you doing?” Louis calls out to him. Harry pauses halfway up the trunk, and shoots Louis a look like it should be obvious. 

(It is, but that’s besides the point.) Louis should probably question his decision to follow Harry up the tree, but nothing he’s done has made much sense lately. This ranks pretty low on the odd scale, anyway. Plus, he’s a bit curious to see what Harry’s expecting to accomplish once he’s reaching the platform. 

Harry beats him to the top, but he’s panting just as hard as Louis, so it’s not enough of a victory to make Louis jealous. His hands burn, and he’s pretty sure he’s got a splinter in his thumb, but the sound of the yellowjackets is gone now, and they’ve got a pretty spectacular view of the campground from the trees. 

Louis whistles appreciatively. “Wish I had a view like this back home.”

Harry makes a noise in agreement, and Louis realises he doesn’t know where Harry lives anymore. The thought makes him oddly sad, if he’s honest. He doesn’t know a lot of things about Harry anymore. 

“Do you still live in Holmes Chapel?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t really live anywhere, actually.”

“What do you mean you don’t live anywhere? Are you homeless or something?” Louis braces himself for the answer; and the guilt that will most likely accompany it. 

“Huh? Oh. No. No, not homeless. Well, technically? I suppose? I mean I have a lot of homes but not one that’s just mine. If that makes sense?”

It doesn’t, but Harry doesn’t look finished, so Louis waits for a more satisfying explanation. 

“I travel for work, right? And I’m away so often that it felt like waste of money to rent a place I’d barely be in. So when I’m not working I stay with friends. Or my mum. It probably sounds odder than it really is,” Harry adds, almost like an afterthought, and, well, he’s not wrong. 

“Wait, so you really had to work last year? When we all went to Vegas? You weren’t just avoiding me?”

Harry shakes his head, and Louis feels like a tit. He’d been so sure Harry backed out of their plans because of Louis, and everything that had happened. He feels like an idiot. An idiot, and a tit, and the world’s biggest wanker, because he’d spent most of that weekend slagging Harry off to anyone who’d listen. Christ. 

He hadn’t even been able to tell the others what was wrong.

“So, if you weren’t ignoring me, then why the fuck did you disappear on me, you fucking arsehole? I know why I didn’t talk to you, but why didn’t you bloody talk to me?”

“Didn’t think you’d want to,” Harry says, and Louis can tell even as he says it that he doesn’t quite believe it. He’d probably been scared, same as Louis, and regret for their lost time makes his stomach churn. It gets worse when Harry continues on. 

“I didn’t actually want to do that, you know,” he says, and it’s obvious that he’s struggling to meet Louis’ eyes. “I didn’t want to stop. I liked what we did, I liked you and I didn’t want to stop it. I regret that night so fucking much, Lou. Even more so now that I know how much I hurt you.” Harry bites his lip and looks away. 

“Are you serious? But then why did you—” Louis starts, and then immediately gets cut off.

“I thought you were going to break up with… I mean, I thought you were going to say you didn’t want it anymore. The friends-with-benefits… thing.” Harry rakes a hand through his hair and shakes out the curls. “I thought I’d save you the trouble,” he finishes lamely.

Well. “God, Haz, you really are a thicko.”  _ God.  _ Bloody  _ hell _ . “I wasn’t going to break it off, arsehole; I was going to tell you…” Louis trails off, not quite ready to admit anything. 

“What? What were you going to tell me?”

Louis takes a breath. Exhales. Closes his eyes and turns away. “I was going to tell you that my feelings had changed. I was… I was going to tell you that I was in love with you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback has been scientifically proven to speed the update rate of a WIP ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait y'all! especially after such a mean cliffhanger xD

If this moment were a movie, the silence after Louis’ confession would seem to stretch forever - at least, it would feel that way - as the two characters take a moment to let the confession sink in. There would be blinks of surprise, and gasps, and loving gazes that hint at a satisfying resolution. 

But this is not a movie, there are no loving gazes, and Harry answers immediately.

“You were acting odd,” he cries out, sounding both desperate and confused. It’s a statement, a question, and an accusation all at once.

“Because I’d just realised I was in love with you!” Louis shouts, and Harry’s eyes go wide. If the situation wasn’t so mortifying, Louis would be taking the piss, because Harry’s mouth is gaping and he looks like a fucking fish, and this is also so bloody stupid because Louis can’t even properly enjoy Harry looking like an idiot. He half hopes the wood’s rotted through - he knows it isn’t; Pat would never allow that to happen - and Louis can just fall through and not have to witness Harry’s next reaction. Because the fish face won’t stay forever. It’ll give way to the concerned frog face, and Louis can’t do it.

He wonders if the ground is soft enough to break his fall, if he’s too high up to jump. A broken arm might be worth it, actually. His planning must show on his face because Harry grabs his arm and shakes his head.

“Don’t be daft, Lou. You’ll break a leg if you jump from this height.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says primly, but abandons the plan anyway. Harry would probably do something daft if he jumped. Like jump after him. Or take care of him in the event that he actually breaks his bloody arm. Or both.

Yeah, definitely not worth the effort.

“Hey,” Harry says, interrupting his thoughts.  

“What?”

“Y’know how in theatre you’re meant to say ‘break a leg’ instead of good luck or else you’ll have bad luck? D’you think that works in reverse? Like if I said ‘break a leg’ and you jumped down, you’d actually break a leg? Wouldn’t that be weird? That’d be weird, right?”

Louis blinks at the sudden change in conversation. “Jesus, Hazza, do you ever fucking think before you speak?”

“Do I ever think before I what now?” Harry replies in a forced American accent that lands harshly on Louis’ ears.

He’s so annoying. Truly. Louis dislikes him so much. Which is why, with the complete absence of any filter,  he says, “I think I’m actually happy that you’re here.” It comes out as more of a question than anything, but Louis’ positive that he means it.

“I’m happy that you’re happy I’m here; seeing you again has been amazing,” Harry tells him, equally as soppy and open, and then backtracks. “I mean… It’s good. It’s good to see you. I’m happy to see you, Lou. I really am.”

It’s not news, yet somehow hearing it straight from Harry’s mouth makes it all the more sweet, and Louis ducks his head to hide his dopey grin.

When he looks up again, Harry’s face is inches from his own. Time stops, and Louis’ heart is racing. Only it’s not the good kind; all he can think about is how much it hurt to get his heart broken. He doesn’t quite trust Harry not to do it again, and that’s what makes him turn away as soon as Harry leans in. Harry’s lips graze the side of his mouth, and he shuts his eyes tight.

“It’s not— I just— We can’t do this.”

Harry smiles ruefully. “I read the situation wrong, didn’t I?”

“No! Well… a bit. Not really, but— Yeah. Yeah, probably. But it’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then his hand is hovering above Louis’. “Is this okay?”

Louis nods and fights a smile. Harry’s hand comes down to cover his own, and the familiar weight is a soothing companion to the spectacular view provided by the setting of the sun. Louis links their fingers, squeezing once and ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. He feels 13 again, like a kid with a crush, finally holding the hand of the boy who’s made the back of his knees sweaty for an entire summer.

The sun has finally dipped below the horizon, marking the ending of the day, only it doesn’t feel like an ending. Quite the opposite, really. And for the first time since Harry’s arrival, Louis isn’t dreading tomorrow.

(Quite the opposite, really.)

**~*~**

A revelation like yesterday’s should’ve made things odd between them, Louis thinks. Mostly he’s just wishing he could get that time back, the time spent without Harry in his life. That time sucked; he’d really missed Harry. And it’s not like everything is completely fixed. There’s still enough hurt and pain and things to work through that there’s no guarantee the whole situation won’t go pear-shaped a second time. Still, Louis is hopeful. And a bit nervous, if he’s honest, because things really should feel weird. He was expecting things to feel weird. 

Then again, nothing involving Harry ever goes as expected. 

Harry hates planning things. He prefers spontaneity, which was great when Louis was 16 and filled with the reckless abandon that comes with being a teenage boy. But not so much once he’d hit his early-twenties and his mind got all jumbled up because the boy he’d fancied since he knew what it meant to fancy someone possibly had feelings for him and actually didn’t intend to rip his heart out that one time. 

It’s quite a lot to take in, really, and surprises aren’t exactly at the top of Louis’ list of favourite things today. Yet as soon as he sees Harry’s note to meet him at the pond with the rope swing - as if there’s any other one,  _ honestly, Harold  _ \- Louis knows he’ll show up. Harry knows it too, probably, but Louis wishes he didn’t. Or… He’s not sure, because it is a bit nice to have someone know you well enough to know when… Never mind. Not important. What’s important right now is food, and he’s not going to rush through his meal just because Harry’s waiting for him. 

Except he is, and he does, and he leaves the main house with butterflies in his stomach and his mum’s voice in his head reminding him not to swim so soon after eating. He ignores that voice, ignores the butterflies, and when Louis finally arrives at the pond, he finds Harry already in the water. 

There’s a neatly folded pile of clothing on a rock nearby, and at the top of the stack is a pair of pants. Louis is of the opinion that pants should never be folded, and he’d speak his mind on the subject if the implication of the pants on the pile hadn’t just occurred to him. Because if Harry’s pants are folded  on the top of the pile, then that means Harry isn’t wearing any pants. 

“You’re not wearing pants,” Louis says unnecessarily, and Harry smiles lazily. 

“Didn’t want my clothes to get wet.”

“You were literally wearing swimming trunks.”

“Swimming trunks that I didn’t want to get wet; gotta wear them later, right?”

“Still, why didn’t you just keep your bleeding pants on?”

“Well, it would have been a bit difficult considering I was never wearing any in the first place. Those are just there for when I get out,” he says, like that makes any of this better.

“Christ,” Louis groans. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why weren’t you wearing any pants?”

"Oh. I like to let it breathe.”

“Of course you do,” Louis mutters. Harry’s lazy smile is accompanied by a slow blink now, and Louis forces himself to look away. The water looks inviting, and the temptation to fling himself in using the rope swing is really,  _ really  _ hard to resist. “Turn around,” he snaps, loud enough for Harry to hear this time. Harry’s smile never leaves his face as he turns, and Louis is fairly certain he’s trying to sneak a peek. “Close your eyes,” he adds, and squints in Harry’s direction to make sure he’s doing it. Harry gives him a thumbs up which Louis assumes means his eyes are actually closed, but he still darts behind a tree to undress. Just in case. 

He doesn’t know what’s caused this sudden bout of shyness, especially considering Harry has seen him naked plenty of times, in various contexts. And  _ especially  _ considering he’s about to technically skinny-dip with his ex… Harry. Louis doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so shy, but he does know he doesn’t want to give Harry a free pass to stare at him. His feelings are complicated enough without throwing sexual tension into the mix. 

Although, he thinks glumly, it might already be too late. 

He rids himself of his shorts and vest quick enough, but chooses to keep his own pants on. Just because. Someone might see them. Thor might get curious and search for them and he’d rather not scar the poor dog for life, thank you very much. That might not actually be possible, he realises, but it’s the excuse he’s sticking with if Harry asks. ‘s not like he can just come out and admit he’s hesitant about letting Harry see his bits. Especially when Harry’s are also out. They’ve each seen plenty of each other’s… They’ve already seen each other’s knobs this week, but not at the same time and that just seems worse. So. 

He tosses his clothes in the general direction of Harry’s tidy pile, and then changes his mind. So his clothes get folded into their own tidy pile, and that pile goes on top of Harry’s. If that pile on top of Harry’s happens to hide the pants that Louis keeps glancing at, then it’s just a happy coincidence. 

Honest.

The rope of the swing feels softer than the last time Louis did this. More worn, but still familiar enough to bring forth a plethora of happy memories made in this place. Wasting away the afternoon with his best friends. Definitely not taking advantage of his familial connection to skive off their afternoon activities. Not Louis, no way. Model camper, he was. 

(Honest.)

The slow steps backwards he takes bring on a sense of deja vu, and it’s like muscle memory takes over as he runs and flings himself forward. For a moment he’s airborne, he’s flying and then he’s falling. One is not unlike the other, he thinks as he hits the water with a splash, the cold as shocking as the realisation that keeping his pants on was a mistake. The damp fabric clings to his thighs uncomfortably. It’s a challenge to hide his grimace from Harry as he treads water on the opposite end of the pond, a challenge he’s fairly sure he’s failing if the knowing look on Harry’s face is any indication. Louis bites his lip and thumbs at the elastic of his pants hesitantly for a moment before sliding them down.  

Harry wolf whistles as Louis struggles to kick the now soaking-wet fabric off his ankles. He sticks up his middle finger in Harry’s general direction and scowls.

“Fuck off.” In his annoyance, he’s managed to kick the pants  _ all the way off  _ and he holds up the finger as best he can while diving under the water to retrieve his sinking pants. 

Harry’s laughter follows him down, growing more and more muffled until Louis’ head pops up again and he tosses his wet pants as close to Harry’s clothes pile as possible. By some miracle, he hits the intended target, and grins smugly at Harry’s indigent shout. His grin disappears, however, when Harry surprises him by swimming over quickly. He scrambles back, flailing until Harry catches him in his arms. It’s awkward. Or, at least, it should be. But it really isn’t. And Louis doesn’t know what to do with that realisation.

So he ignores it. 

The only thing keeping him afloat right now is Harry. The sound of their imaginary companions fades away as Louis lets himself be held, lets himself be stared at by Harry. He doesn’t look away, he doesn’t pull away, and it still should be awkward, but it still isn’t. 

There’s a different kind of tension now; it shouldn’t make sense, he shouldn’t be this close and this naked with Harry without wanting to like, touch him a little bit. More than they’re touching right now, anyway. Like, in a sexy way. But that urge is silent as he continues to let himself be held, because the only things that matter in this moment are the way he feels cradled in Harry’s arms, the way the water feels around him, and the fact that he doesn’t want to pull away. Not even a little bit. 

Not even at all. 

**~*~**

The afternoon finds them once again attempting to complete Pat’s endless list. To be fair, it’s not so much endless as Louis is terrible at staying on task. Especially since he’s acquired an unexpected distraction. Double now, because the distraction just got even more interesting and now he can’t stop thinking about  _ kissing it. _ It’s terribly inconvenient timing, this is. 

He’s meant to be productive; he’d promised Pat he’d finish the list, only it’s hard to concentrate on changing light-bulbs when Harry’s filling up the room the way he is. Louis watches as he flits from box pile to box pile, occasionally stopping to root around in one and making little excited noises every time he finds something particularly interesting. 

That’s how they discover the boombox. And the gargantuan binder full of CDs. And the microphones. 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“When has the answer to that  _ ever  _ been yes, Haz?”

“So you don’t want to check this out?”

“Of course not,” Louis sniffs as he unzips the binder. “It’d be pointless,” he says, flipping through the pages and taking in the journey to the past the CDs drag him on. 

“You’re right,” Harry says, though not quite as deadpan, “this’d be well boring.” He takes the CD Louis plucks from the sleeve and plops it in the boombox. 

Louis hadn’t been able to get a good look at the label before Harry’s theft, just that it was a mix with something written in sharpie that, again, he missed because Harry can’t leave anything well enough alone. There’s a second or two of whirring where he’s sure the old thing is broken, and then the CD starts to play and Harry’s face lights up. It’s such a lovely expression that it takes Louis’ breath away. He still hasn’t recovered by the time Harry’s stood up and singing, and that’s when Louis recognises the song. As well as the way Harry sways his hips in an all too familiar rhythm. 

_ Just like the white winged dove _

Louis swallows, but his throats gone dry. 

_ Sings a song _

There’s no way Harry is unaware of the effect he’s got on Louis now. Always has. 

_ Sounds like she's singing _

Harry’s all but purring the lyrics now, voice tangling with Stevie’s, and Louis can’t look away. The  _ oohs  _ are accompanied with hip thrusts that really should be illegal, and alarm bells start going off in Louis’ head. Unless he wants Harry to see him get hard, he needs to get out of there.  _ Now _ . He doesn’t, of course, because that would mean his brain was functioning at 100% at this moment, and it’s decidedly, 100%,  _ not _ .

Somehow, Louis missed Harry finding and donning something that looks like a cape, but he suspects is something entirely different. That doesn’t stop him though; Harry looks every inch a proper rockstar now and Louis is completely mesmerised. Harry’s got him under some sort of spell, and he doesn’t even care. Vaguely, he registers the sound of the song, mostly drowned out now that Harry is closer and louder and just. More. He’s everywhere, in Louis’ space and around him. Whatever he’s wearing as a cape is dusty, and Louis tries his hardest not to sneeze and ruin whatever this is. 

In the end, it’s Harry who succumbs to the floating particles, and the serenade comes to an abrupt stop. Louis’ surroundings come back to him almost immediately. The song sounds odd to him now without Harry’s accompaniment, and he stands awkwardly to press the pause button. 

Harry’s still sneezing, and Louis’ worried. “Do you need your inhaler?” Did he even bring it? They aren’t close to the house, would Harry be okay if Louis ran to fetch it? Or, wait, he’s just sneezing. Does he even need it for that? He’s not wheezing; it’s probably fine, right? 

He finds himself wishing he still remembered what to do in this situation. Once upon a time, he’d been the expert, had tasked himself with the job of taking care of his best friend. He loved that responsibility. Somehow, he’s managed to forget all that, and the thought sits heavy in his stomach. 

“Haz?” he says, and, louder this time, “Do you need your inhaler?”

With a final sneeze, Harry shakes his head. His nose is a bit snotty, and Louis watches as he wipes his nose on the very thing that causes his sneezing fit in the first place. 

“Are you daft? What are you doing? You’ll set it off again!” he shouts, possibly too forcefully for the situation, but he’s rapidly approaching panic mode. Harry can deal. 

“Set what off?”

“The sneezing! You’ll give yourself a bleeding asthma attack and you don’t even have your inhaler on you!”

“Calm down, I’m fine.”

“Calm down? Calm  _ down _ ? You want me to—” Louis stops short when Harry gathers his hands in one of his and presses their foreheads together. 

It’s shockingly intimate, and Louis’ first instinct is to step back quickly. Only. Only, he doesn’t. In an odd twist of events, it’s Louis who ends up using Harry’s slow, gentle breathing to calm his own. It’s Louis who’s settled by Harry’s whispered reassurances, and it’s Louis who nearly leans in for the kiss this time. 

Harry would let him, he thinks. He could do it, he could put his lips on Harry’s and bloody snog him like they’ve got no baggage. Nothing to keep them apart. But they do, and they  _ do _ . So, he doesn’t. The prolonged silence threatens to make their position even more awkward, but Louis can’t make himself pull away. He doesn’t kiss Harry, but neither of them moves anyway. They have no excuse to be touching like this; yet they have no reason to stop. 

Up close Louis can see every detail of Harry’s face. Every pore, every freckle and mole and minute detail, including the spots along his hairline. The rest of his face is a bit shiny, a sign of how much effort he’d put into his little song and dance. Louis is panting a bit himself, if he’s honest, if only from his brief little panic. His palm is sweaty; Harry’s is as well and the slickness is beginning to get uncomfortable, yet, still, neither of them make any effort to pull apart. 

Harry’s eyes are still impossibly green. Louis’ always been easy for green eyes. Completely unrelated to Harry, of course. Plenty of blokes have green eyes, plenty of blokes have green eyes and want to shag Louis. Okay, one. And they’d turned out to be contacts. But his point still stands. 

Louis hates fakes. 

He’s staring into those green eyes, and has to aggressively remind himself that he can’t feel this way. He’s not supposed to stare into Harry’s impossibly green eyes. He’s also not supposed to be standing this close, to be letting Harry hold his hands like that. Louis is allowing a lot of things he shouldn’t lately. 

Harry clears his throat, and the moment is finally over. 

Realising he never reacted to Harry’s song, Louis pulls a hand out of Harry’s grasp and uses it to clap the other man on the arm twice. “Well done there, lad. You’ve still got the voice that won the whole camp over back in the day.”

Harry’s blush is impossible to miss, nor the way he bites his lip bashfully at the praise. “Really? You think? I haven’t had much practice, actually. ‘m sort of rusty.”

As if Harry could ever be rusty. “No, trust me, you were amazing,” Louis reassures him, and then realises what he’s said. “The singing! The singing was amazing, you were— You sounded… Yeah.” 

“Thank you, I think?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’re welcome. For the compliment. And the singing.”

“But you haven’t sung anything yet.”

“Oh. Right. I could?”

“Do you want to?”

Of course he does. “I suppose.” 

Harry finally drops Louis’ other hand, and Louis can feel him staring as he changes out the CD in the boombox for something a little more his style. His go-to karaoke song in any situation. Even this one. 

Hopefully.

But Harry had his solo, had all the attention on him. Harry had done his part today, has done enough flustering to last Louis the rest of the week. So, it’s only fair that Harry gets a taste of his own medicine. Harry isn’t the only one who can tease. 

It’s Louis’ turn now. 

**~*~**

Today has been unbearably hot, just like the three previous, and it’s not helping either of their moods one bit. They end up snapping at each other over the most trivial of things, and it all comes to a head on the evening of the fourth day. 

It’s Harry’s fault. Well, Harry’s and whoever let him pick up those bananas at the shop. That person was him, actually, but how was he meant to know that an innocent purchase of fruit would lead to this? Harry’s got a banana in his hand, and Louis knows what’s coming next. There’s no way it’s not, because Harry will always be Harry, and Harry can’t be normal. Ever.

He watches as Harry slowly peels the fruit - from the opposite end, because some things never change - while glancing at Louis from underneath his eyelashes. He knows what’s coming next, knows exactly what Harry’s about to do, yet he can’t find it in himself to look away. Harry finally breaks eye contact as he brings the tip up to his mouth, tongue darting forward, flicking quickly in a manner that has Louis squirming in his wooden chair. 

He swallows thickly when Harry begins to lower his head; the banana never making contact with his cheeks as his guides it along his tongue. Guides it deep into his mouth. To the back of his throat. Louis has to do something. Now. He’s got to stop this before his cock fully wakes up and demands attention. He can’t let Harry win this. He refuses. 

It’s Harry’s breathy moan that finally spurs him into action, quickly scooping up a spoonful of eggs and lobbing them directly at Harry’s face. 

Harry’s eyes go wide as he accidentally bites down, earning himself a mouthful of banana that he promptly spits out onto the table.

Louis curls his lip. “That’s fucking disgusting, mate.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Harry squawks indignantly. 

“Neither did I,” he replies, and Harry narrows his eyes. Louis responds by returning his attention to his phone, pointedly ignoring Harry, sure that he’s won this round.

“In that case,” Harry says, and Louis still doesn’t lift his head, “this is an accident as well.”

A glob of banana hits the lens of Louis’ glasses, and he feels his jaw tighten involuntarily. “Are we doing this then?” he asks, already knowing the answer when he sees that Harry’s readied his spoon with more banana. 

“Looks like we are,” Harry shoots back.

“Proper childish, innit?”

He doesn’t receive a response, which is fine because he’s too busy scrambling his way under the table to seek shelter from Harry’s mushy assault, grabbing a fistful of grapes on his way down. 

“Apples are off limits!” he calls, and gets a low “shit” in response, followed by what sounds like an apple being rolled away. He was planning to fucking  _ eat that _ , bloody hell. 

It’s the first casualty. 

The next twenty minutes are a blur of shouts and flying food. After it’s over, Louis finds himself lying on the floor surrounded by the remains of fruit and whatever leftovers they’d found in the fridge. He suspects some of those items have gone off, judging by the smell. 

“So much for that ceasefire,” he says to the ceiling, and Harry groans.

“Did you really think that would work?”

“No, not really.” Louis sits up and stretches, raising his arms above his head and groaning in a way that has Harry raising his eyebrows.

“Good stretch?” 

“Fuck off, pervert,” Louis snaps back without any real venom, and Harry pinches the bit of exposed skin visible between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his joggers. He lets out an embarrassingly loud squeal, and curls in on himself protectively. “Fuck  _ off _ .”

“No,” Harry sing-songs, but doesn’t pinch again. Which kinda sucks, because Louis was sort of expecting one this time. 

He’ll analyse that thought later. 

“You’ve got egg in your hair,” he says instead.

Harry lifts a hand to his head and attempts to brush the egg away. “Did I get it?” Louis shakes his head and Harry tries again. “Now?” Louis shakes his head again and Harry frowns. “Are you having me on? Is there even really anything there?” Louis nods and reaches out to brush it away himself. It hits the floor with a soft splat and they both stare. 

There’s a moment of silence; Louis’ throat is suddenly, strangely dry. “You just had the wrong side,” he manages, swallowing deeply as Harry’s gaze flicks back up to meet his. 

“Thanks, Lou,” he says, sounding genuine in a way only Harry’s ever been able to pull off. Louis is so, so screwed. Because only he could go from flinging food at a bloke to wanting to snog the face off him right after. 

The worst part is that Harry’s got a spot of something red and unidentified on his shoulder and it’s not even a turn-off. Louis is so incredibly screwed. He’s halfway to considering suggesting Harry take his shirt off - to deal with the stain, obviously - when Harry steps into his space, and Louis has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He can’t let Harry see how nervous he is. This isn’t his first kiss, not even close, but it feels like one of the important ones. Like one he’ll remember for years after. He just has to, well, do it first. 

He still doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and it must show because Harry’s face softens as he steps forward, with a soft, “Hey,” and “it’s okay.” 

His hands move to Louis’ cheeks, palms warm against his skin, and then they’re kissing, soft, gentle, pressings of lips that Louis can feel zinging through his entire body. The kiss ends far too quickly, and Louis finds himself mourning the absence of Harry’s lips on his own.

“Should we try that again?” Harry asks. Louis tries to nod, but he’s still frozen. Harry starts to look nervous. Louis, afraid he’s going to pull away, surges forward. Their noses collide and Harry makes a noise of surprise, jerking his head away. Oh, fuck.

“Shit!” Louis rubs at his nose and closes his eyes tightly, afraid to witness Harry’s reaction, even when he can feel Harry’s forehead against his own and the warm exhale of his breath as he murmurs  _ Lou _ . 

The whimper he lets out in response would be embarrassing if he wasn’t so far gone, wasn’t drowning in everything  _ Harry _ . He’s drunk on it, giddy with the sensation of Harry in his space, touching him everywhere. There are thumbs pressing into the divots of his hips, eyelashes brushing his cheeks, fingers exploring his lower back. Lips on his collarbones, on his shoulders (one, and then the other; soft, so soft), against his neck. 

Crashing into his own. 

The fingers on his back find his bum; hands are cupping his arse as Harry drags Louis (impossibly; how is this even possible?) closer. This time it’s Harry who whimpers; Louis steals the noise with a kiss, followed by another, and another, until his lips feel raw and sore, and even that isn’t enough to persuade him to stop. The world could end right now and Louis wouldn’t notice; all that matters is kissing Harry.

It’s a bit ridiculous, really. Of course there’s more to life than kissing Harry; Louis is perfectly aware of this fact. Really. It’s just hard to remember things like that when Harry’s sucking on Louis’ lower lips, nibbling it ever-so-softly. Biting down until Louis cries out and soothing it with a swipe of his tongue quickly after. 

Harry’s tongue. Oh, god, Harry’s tongue. 

“Your tongue is actually going to kill me,” he says out loud (accidentally) and Harry huffs a laugh into his eager mouth. 

“I’ve been waiting to do this all week,” Harry says, and it comes out like an admission. “Longer, if I’m honest.” 

The frankness of his confessions is almost too much for Louis, and he’s glad when Harry shuts up and rubs their noses together softly, the gentlest brush that sends Louis’ heart fluttering. Because somehow this feels more intimate than anything else they’ve done in the last five minutes. Harry’s face is so close to his own that Louis can feel the flutter of his eyelashes. 

Their foreheads press together as Harry halts the nose rubbing and kisses the side of Louis’ mouth. It feels almost delicate. Like Louis is something that can be broken, that should be treasured. Or maybe it’s this moment, suspended in time, hanging in the balance like the smallest push could shatter it. That’s the absolute last thing Louis wants, which explains the embarrassingly needy whine that slips out when Harry pulls his head back. Louis chases those lips, beyond feeling shame at this point, and Harry does that huffy laugh again.

“Hi,” he says, like he hasn’t just changed everything. 

“Hi,” Louis says back, like he isn’t in danger of melting into a puddle the moment Harry lets him go. “Don’t let go.” 

There’s a voice in the back of his mind telling him to stop it, to shut up and not be so bloody needy. To hold his cards closer to his chest. Because it’s dangerous to allow Harry to see him like this. To see him so vulnerable. He’s absolutely going to get hurt again, Louis is well aware of that fact. And yet, here in this perfect, delicate, and still unbroken moment, he can’t be arsed to give a fuck. 

“The kitchen’s a tip.”

“Your fault,” Louis murmurs. “It’s your fault.”

“You helped a bit there, love.”

“Just a bit, though.”

“Oh, of course. Absolutely. It’s not like you threw the first shot or anything.”

“How very dare you,” Louis cries dramatically. (At least, as dramatically as he can when he’s trying not to bleeding swoon.) He jabs a finger into the centre of Harry’s chest. “I wouldn’t have gone and done that if you hadn’t fucking fellated a bloody banana in front of me.”

“That’s just how I eat,” Harry points out unhelpfully.

“Oh, trust me, Haz, I’m aware. I’m very, very aware. Now,” he says, very seriously because this is very serious, of course. “Now,” he says, and it’s all he can do not to snort. “Now,” he says for what is hopefully the last time, “Shut up, and just kiss me again, you fool.” 

“Oh, darling,” Harry says dryly, slow smile spreading across his stupidly lovely face, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Louis barely spares a thought regarding the state of the kitchen before he finds himself being dipped into a kiss that he feels all the way to his toes. It’s heart-pounding, spine-tingling, and the mess is forgotten for the rest of the evening.

(It’s ridiculously flattering.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI HELLO I'M NOT DEAD

Now that Louis’ allowed to kiss Harry again, he never wants to stop. It’s like he’s addicted. No, that’s not quite right. More like he’s been stranded in a desert for years, and Harry’s lips - god, Harry’s  _ lips -  _ are the crystal cool water in the oasis that he just can’t get enough of.

(Okay, maybe addicted was the right word after all.) 

So, yes, Louis is addicted to Harry’s kisses, and he isn’t even trying to hide it. Which is proper embarrassing, really, but Louis doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about much now that he’s got Harry, and Harry’s kisses, and  _ Harry _ . They kiss good morning now. It’s been ages since Louis’ kissed someone good morning. It’s quite nice; even if there’s enough of a difference to Harry’s technique to remind Louis that they’ve been kissing other people. 

Well, Harry has, anyway. 

Louis has, too, he supposes, but he can’t find it in himself to count those. None of them matter because he’s finally,  _ finally _ , kissing Harry again. It’s like something’s been slotted into place, something’s shifted and it’s so, so, good. Louis is so, so, good. And Harry is… Fuck, Harry’s lovely. 

Louis gets goodnight kisses in addition to good morning kisses. He gets minty toothpaste ones when Harry ambushes him after a shower. He gets sweet, sticky ones after Harry finds a hidden bag of caramels in the cupboard. He gets them slow, and he gets them fast, and he gets them often. And, most of the time, he gets them just because. 

He gets to kiss Harry and be kissed by Harry, and he’s honestly got no idea how he went this long without Harry’s lips pressed to his. 

And he’s quite certain he never wants to find out. 

He gets to kiss Harry’s checks, gets to dot his face with little pecks, gets to nibble at his neck whenever he’s so inclined, and…

Well, that’s kinda it. 

Which is fine, obviously. They’ve only just reconnected, it’s much too early for anything beyond kissing. At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself at the beginning of each covert shower wank. He suspects Harry might be doing the same, if his flushed cheeks and guilty looks are any indication. Louis wants to tell him it’s okay, but that would mean admitting he knows, and admitting what he’s doing. Which will lead to all sorts of awkwardness, and put sex on the table, and just—

They just aren’t ready for that yet. Not this soon.

So Louis plans activities, because if he’s got a moment to relax he’ll do something rash, like take his top off and take Harry’s top off and maybe sink his teeth into the slight pudge under Harry’s belly button. Right above the waistband of his Calvin Kleins that are visible at the most inconvenient of times. 

Things are good. Things are really, really good. But things are also confusing. Because he doesn’t know what they are, what they’re doing. He’d be content to kiss Harry for ages if he just knew where they stood. If he had some sort of confirmation that this would extend past their weekend. He should ask. That would be the healthy, mature, smart thing to do. Louis likes to think he’s all of those things, and he is. He  _ is.  _ But this thing. This thing with Harry is a lot. And it’s a bloody huge deal, is what it is. And, he’s…

Well, he’s scared, isn’t he? And who wouldn’t be? It all feels so delicate; they’re tucked away from the outside world, and he’s positive that’s had an impact on their newly developing relation— whatever this is. But it’s fine. It’s  _ fine _ . 

They’ve been watching lots of films. 

Pat doesn’t have the largest collection, but they’ve made it work. Except today Louis is distracted by the giant lovebite he’d accidentally sucked onto Harry’s neck. He’s mostly paying attention, but then Harry notices Louis staring, and the film is abandoned in favour of snogging on the sofa, which is fine because he’s seen this one before. He - and Harry, probably - could recite it word for word. So, it’s fine. Snogging can come before Grease. Danny Zuko would understand, surely. And if not, well. He’s not actually real.

Louis lets himself be pushed back until his head is resting on the arm of the sofa and Harry’s body is covering his own. He pretends not to notice the way Harry seems to be purposely holding his hips up, and is secretly glad for the lack of pressure. 

(Literally.)

Making out like this makes Louis feel like a teenager again; it’s strange but at the same time it feels so good that he can’t hold back a whine when Harry pulls off his neck after what feels like ages and looks down at him. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Not particularly,” Louis says, winding his fingers in Harry’s curls and pulling his head closer. He moves back and smirks at Harry’s frustrated groan. “Fine, what is it?”

Quick as lightning, Harry pecks his lips. Louis narrows his eyes, and Harry laughs before admitting, “I used to think this house was haunted.”

Louis sits up on his elbows, jostling Harry until he rolls off him and onto the bed. “What?”

Harry turns on his side and pokes Louis in the stomach, who flinches and swats his hand away. Harry responds with a cheeky smile. “You heard me,” he says, and he’s right, but that doesn’t mean Louis understood.

Louis gives him a Look to communicate this, and Harry holds up his hands. “Fine. I was nervous about sleeping here because of the ghosts.”

“But there aren’t any ghosts.”

“That you know of.”

“You still did though. You still stayed over.”

“Well, yeah, of course.”

Interesting. “Do you still?”

“Do I still what?”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not,” he protests, and then again, more defensively, “I’m not.”

“Do you still think this house is haunted?”

He shrugs and looks away. “Maybe.”

“But you stayed. You’ve been here for days. Why?”

Another shrug. “Same reason as before.”

“What’s that?”

His eyes find Louis’. “You.”

“Shut up,” Louis says. “Shut up. You can’t say things like that.”

Harry catches his wrist and presses a kiss into the palm of his hand. “I just did.” There’s a challenge behind his words, one Louis isn’t sure he can meet. 

“Wanker.”

“You do have a way with words, darling,” Harry quips dryly. 

Louis kills the conversation with a kiss, half-expecting Harry to pull away. But he doesn’t and it’s lovely (so lovely) that he’s torn between kissing Harry’s lips and staring at his (lovely) face. Harry catches on after the third time he tries that - the kissing and the pulling away and the kissing and the pulling away - and stops Louis with a gentle hand on the back of his neck and even gentler fingers curled into the hair there. 

He shivers when Harry’s nails scratch gently at his skin, making him gasp into the kiss and open his mouth enough for Harry to slip his tongue inside. Before, they’d be naked at this point. They’d be naked and touching each other, well past the kissing stage. Not that they focused on the kissing much, anyway. Sure, it was nice; Harry’s an exceptionally good kisser, and Louis would never ever turn down a chance to snog him, but this is different. Tonight is… different. Good different, lovely different. 

They manage to waste away the rest of the day watching films and talking and kissing (and kissing and kissing), and making tentative plans for a visit to the cabins the next day that risks getting thwarted when the radio informs them of incoming storms. He won’t worry about that now, though. Because he’s got Harry, and they’re snug in their little bubble and it’s good. It’s so good.  

It’s so good, and then Louis can’t stop thinking about what Harry said. About the implication behind it, like Louis makes him feel safe, or something. The conversation lingers still, and although he intends to subtly bring it up again before bed that night, he forgets. Because of the kisses. Harry’s lovely, lovely kisses. The ones he doesn’t want to stop. And talking about this thing between them could very well ruin it, which is the absolute last thing he wants. So he just… forgets. 

And it’s absolutely not on purpose, no matter what the traitorous voice in the back of his mind is trying to claim. 

(Honest.)

**~*~**

Louis hadn’t anticipated this much rain when he’d made the decision to invite his boys to the camp. At this point, he’s pretty much given up on getting everything completely fixed up; everyone can just deal with the current state of the site, and it’s not like they haven’t all shared beds over the years. He’ll have to set up some of the other bedrooms, but that’s fine. He’ll also have to figure out how to make it look like Harry’s been sleeping in one. Or on the sofa. Or… well, anything that isn’t Louis’ bed. Anything that doesn’t invite too many questions. But it’s fine. They’ve got time.

Or, they would, if Louis hadn’t let Harry talk him into exploring the attic. He’d been curious about what Louis had been doing when he’d shown up on that first day, and when Louis had admitted he’d been looking at old photos, Harry had insisted on seeing the albums for himself. (Louis is also fairly certain Harry’s trying to prove he isn’t still afraid of the house, but he’s not going to mention it.) 

While Louis had been pulling out the albums, Harry had amused himself by poking around the rest of the boxes. Which is why the two of them are currently sporting too-tight Camp Vernon t-shirts. (Well, too tight on Harry, Louis notes begrudgingly.) The tie-dye has faded after years of sitting in the attic, and they smell faintly of mothballs, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He’s even topped off the look with a bright pink hat that Louis forgot even existed. It’s got HARRY embroidered in white, and Louis is seriously blanking on how it ended up in this box. But it’s there - here - and Harry’s smile is infectious, and he looks so bloody adorable that Louis just wants to kiss him.

So that’s exactly what he does.

Harry seems surprised at first, but he recovers quickly and returns Louis’ kisses with such intensity that Louis can literally feel the room growing warmer. The brim of Harry’s hat keeps bumping Louis in the forehead, but he ignores it in favour of snogging. He ignores it until he can’t anymore, and he reflexively swats at the brim which accidentally knocks it off Harry’s head and onto the attic floor with a  _ thump _ .

Moment effectively ruined, Louis scrambles off of Harry’s lap, ignoring the way Harry’s hands try to hold him in place. Because it’s Harry, because he’s never forceful, his grip is loose enough that Louis doesn’t even have to work to free himself. He looks away, busying himself with finding the right section of the photo album and silently daring Harry to say something about the kiss. 

Harry doesn’t - why would he? It’s not a new occurrence at this point - and stretches his arms over his head, sighing in satisfaction when his back pops. “Have you ever ridden on the back of a motorbike?” 

“I think you know the answer to that question,” Louis sniffs, haughty, because he’s absolutely not checking out the strip of skin that’s visible just above the waist of Harry’s shorts. It disappears when he lowers his arms, and Louis tries not to appear too disappointed.

“Do I? Hmm. We haven’t spoken in almost two years, remember? I feel like I hardly know you anymore.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t fucking do that, okay? And you do know me, arsehole. I haven’t changed that much. Or at all, really.”

“Is that so?” Harry looks contemplative. “So you really haven’t done that? Ridden on the back of a motorbike.” 

“Course I haven’t. I’m not a bloody idiot,” Louis sniffs.

“Would you like to?”

“Why? What’s in it for me?”

“A new and exciting life experience?”

“Pass.”

“A chance to feel the wind in your hair and bugs in your teeth?”

“Gross.”

“Because I’d like it if you did?”

“Why?”

“‘Cos I’ve always wanted to take a fit bloke for a ride.”

Logically, one should not be able to choke like this when there’s no liquid involved, but something - air? spit? - went down the wrong way and he’s gasping, eyes watering as Harry pats his back, looking concerned. 

“Is that a no, then?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, it’s not a no. It’s not a yes, either.”

“So… Is it a maybe?”

“It’s a ‘take me on your bloody motorbike before I psych myself out.’”

“Can’t,” Harry says, and he really does sound regretful. “It’s raining.” 

Louis looks up, and registers the sound of raindrops hitting the roof. The sound echoes loud in the attic room, and he wonders why he didn’t notice before - that’s the whole bloody reason they’re in the attic and not outside, after all. Then Harry’s downcast eyes flick up to meet Louis’, with his flushed cheeks and red, bitten lips and Louis thinks  _ oh, yes, that’s why.  _ “I knew that,” he says, more hotly than intended - he feels caught; it’s uncomfortable - and snatches the book from Harry. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Harry takes advantage of Louis’ shock to grab the book back, and squints at the photos on the page. “What? What am I meant to be looking at?” He frowns when Louis doesn’t immediately answer, but Louis is too busy laughing to explain anything. All he can do is point, and hope Harry catches on.

He doesn’t, of course.

“You really don’t see it?” Louis tries again, pointing more aggressively this time.

“No?”

“Your hair. It’s… straight.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah, that.” Harry giggles, and Louis suspects he’s tempted to make the obvious joke. Louis rolls his eyes at the unspoken pun, and also a little bit at the way this spread seems to only feature hair. Harry with straightened hair, Harry getting his hair washed, Niall’s peroxide-covered mohawk, and Liam’s curls that Louis had honestly forgotten were even a thing. 

It feels like he’s remembering a lot of things old things this week.

Like the way he’d been the one to draw Liam out of his shell; how he’d befriended Zayn so quickly that it felt like they were brothers. The way Niall’s guitar was permanently fused to his body. 

The way he and Harry were never apart.

Like, he’s certain they weren't actually together 24/7, but the frequency of photographs of only the two of them in the albums tells a different story. Even the ones that feature other people make them look like a couple; in hindsight, Louis really should have seen their future coming. 

Then again, his teenage self could never have pictured this. A future without Harry. Well, very nearly a future without Harry. Close enough to a Harry-less future that the thought scares him for a moment. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, in the clenching of his chest, and doesn’t even have to force himself to turn the page because he honestly can’t look at these particular memories anymore. 

He’s shocked out of his sudden onslaught of melancholy by a picture of a teenage Niall proudly clutching a bright yellow Furby. Harry’s honk of a laugh draws him out even more, until he’s plunged back in as he starts to notice the frequency of pictures featuring only Harry and Zayn. 

“There’s a lot of pictures of just you and Zayn in here,” Louis blurts before he can stop himself. “More’n just us, probably.”

Harry’s cheeky grin isn’t quite patronising, but is close enough that Louis almost doesn’t appreciate the way his dimples should honestly be illegal. (Only almost, though.) “There’s pictures of just you two here… too,” Harry says, and Louis frowns.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just… I don’t know. It’s different.”

“Okay, but, how?” Harry presses, because he’s never been one to just fucking  _ let things go. _

Louis shrugs, and Harry’s forehead does that wrinkle thing. He doesn’t appear to be truly annoyed, just a bit put out. And, of course, he makes indigent look adorable. Christ, Louis fancies him something awful. 

The idea that he could be jealous of Zayn, of his friendship with Harry, is mad. He even feels a slight prickle of resentment at a picture of Harry and Niall cuddled up in a chair together. Of Liam and Harry messing around, not even touching except for Harry’s foot and Liam’s chest. His emotions have gone haywire, and the person to blame is the lad to his left, the one audibly breathing through his mouth and drumming his nails on the floor. 

The one Louis might, sort of, possibly, still be in love with. 

He shuts the album suddenly, and reaches for Harry. Thinking about their past makes their present all the more confusing, and the only time his head is truly quiet is when he’s kissing Harry. 

(So that’s exactly what he does.)

**~*~**

The day before the other boys are due to arrive, they do another big shop. Harry gets his ‘real food’, and Louis gets— whatever. Just like last time, Harry talks him into getting breakfast first. He agrees without a fight - a measure of how gone he is at this point, as he’d been craving a toastie something fierce for days. It’s gone okay, even breakfast. Even though it was, well… 

Breakfast was odd. Not bad odd, but not really a good odd either. Is there a good odd? If there was, it’d be something Harry was good at, probably. Anyway, breakfast was odd. They eat on the same side of the table now, apparently. He’s not really sure why, or how it happened, but Harry just started doing it one day, and never really stopped. It’s become a thing, and also gone on for too long for Louis to bring it up. It’s not like he minds, really, except for the fact that it’s weirdly intimate and he’s not sure how he feels about it.

_As if it’s any more intimate than anything else you’ve done_ , he thinks to himself, and scowls at his reflection in the window. He wishes he had more time to figure this all out; the boys are coming tomorrow, and he and Harry haven’t discussed anything related to what they’re doing now, and just… 

They sit on the same side of the table, now. In public, even. 

That should be less scary than it feels. 

Unlike their previous visit, no one made any comments about the state of their relationship - which is funny to Louis, as they’re actually a step closer to actually  _ being  _ in one this time, but whatever. It’s still on his mind, though. He found himself watching Harry nearly the entire shop. It’s not his fault; Harry’s just one of those people who naturally draws attention. Louis’ no different from anyone else in the shop, really. Watching him peruse the aisles, brow furrowed, carefully navigating the trolley and nearly knocking over every display. He can’t be blamed, honest. It’s always been like that. 

He finishes stocking the freezer with the frozen part of their haul - including the five different flavours of ice cream Harry’s insisted were ‘absolutely necessary’ - and wipes his damp hands on his jeans. He’s rubbing a bit, trying to warm up when Harry clears his throat from across the room. 

“So, what are we going to tell the boys?” Harry rests his hip against the countertop and smirks. “We can keep the sordid details to ourselves,” he says, as if there actually are any, and the smirk changes to a genuine smile. “But boyfriends, yeah? We can tell them that?” He sounds so excited that Louis is absolutely dreading the rest of the conversation. He just— He can’t. He can’t do it; this thing between them is too new, too uncertain. He’s not even sure if he fully trusts Harry not to shatter his heart a second time, but there’s no way he’ll bring that up right now. 

(Not that his next words are going to be easier.)

He inhales, and takes a second to memorise the relaxed and happy smile on Harry’s face. He won’t be seeing that for a while, unfortunately. Finally, once his silence is on the verge of growing awkward, he inhales again, deeper this time. “Why would we say that? We aren’t boyfriends. We aren’t anything really, right? This has just been a bit of fun, yeah?” Even as Louis says the words he knows it’s a lie, and it burns his tongue to do so. He must sound convincing enough though, because when he catches Harry’s eyes again, the look on his face is completely heartbreaking. Harry’s always worn his feelings close to the surface, and it’s obvious Louis’ words hurt him deeply. 

“Oh,” he whispers quietly, and Louis’ chest feels too tight. “I—” Harry starts, and then shakes his head, eyes shining with unshed tears. 

Oh shit. “Haz, wait, I didn’t mean—”

Harry shakes his head. “You did.” He stands; the movement wakes Thor, who assumes Harry wants to play. He pushes his head against Harry’s leg, but only receives a quick pat before Harry’s stalking out the door.

“Haz!” The screen door slams in his face; he pushes it open and chases after Harry in the direction of the shed. The door creaks as Harry wrenches it open, and Louis realises what he’s planning to do. “Harry, you can’t… You can’t ride in the storm.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps, shoving the helmet on his head and wheeling the motorbike out onto the grass. He mounts and takes off, and Louis watches him go, gut twisting as Harry gets smaller and smaller and farther away. The sky is already beginning to darken, and there’s an ominous rumble in the distance. He forces himself to turn and head back inside, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach worsening with each step. 

For the briefest of moments, Louis had everything he wanted, that he’d dreamed about for years. Everything was finally perfect; He’d somehow managed to get a second chance with Harry only to go and ruin it all in less than a week. The whole situation is bloody well fucked, and he’s got absolutely no idea how to fix it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/user/goldfishsunglasses/playlist/7DHg8ZPCSXFPsocHKWtfkN?si=dv-Qx1xKQbGxPHunlSrgDw) | [tumblr post #1](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/178386517142/it-had-all-seemed-so-simple-back-then-theyd-been) | [tumblr post #2](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/182251820666/falling-in-love-with-your-best-friend-a-days)


	5. Chapter 5

In the end, it’s the bloody dog who talks him into it.   
  
He’d considered ringing his aunt for advice, only New Zealand is, like, 12 hours ahead of New York (more, possibly) and it’s too early to bother her with something like this. Even if “this” has him pacing a hole into her favourite rug. (Only a slight exaggeration.) He’s absolutely being considerate and allowing her to sleep in and is definitely not just scared of what she might tell him. Pat’s always been too good at reading Louis’ feelings, she has. So, really, calling Pat was never the sensible option.    
  
He can’t call the boys, because then he’d have to explain why Harry is here. And why he kept it from them. And why Harry’s presence had been so unwanted. Which would lead to Louis inevitably spilling the whole bleeding saga out, and he just doesn’t have the time. So that’s out, too.    
  
His sisters have a vague idea of what happened between him and Harry, but he’s not in the mood to be teased or hear any judgement from those younger than him. So.   
  
So.   
  
(It’s possible Louis spends too much time talking to the dog.)   
  
So.   
  
Thor barks, reminding him that he’s got places to be. And again, twice, because he seems to think it’s time for a ride in the truck.    
  
“Sorry, lad,” Louis says, bending down to scratch Thor behind the ears as an apology. “I can’t take you with me. It’s too dangerous. Besides, someone’s got to protect the house, yeah?”   
  
Thor doesn’t seem to agree, but he doesn’t try and follow Louis out. Which would be fantastic, as Louis doesn’t fancy wrestling 100 pounds of furry fury at the moment, if it weren’t for the pout he’s receiving. Literally puppy-dog eyes, those are. He’d feel worse if he weren’t so bloody worried about Harry. Thor watches through the window as Louis runs to the truck, hood up in an attempt to shield himself from the rain. There’s a flash of lightning as he gets in the car and Louis is only just turning the engine over before the thunder crashes so loudly it shakes the windows. Driving in this weather is one of the worst ideas he’s ever had, but he’s got to. Harry’s probably stranded out there, wet and muddy and cold. Possibly worse.    
  
At the last minute, he runs back inside for the first aid kit. Just in case.   
  
Lightning cracks the sky again as he starts the truck, and more thunder booms when he pulls onto the road. He glances back to confirm the ramp he’d need to transport Harry’s bike is in the bed.   
  
(Just in case.)

  
  
**~*~**

  
He can’t find Harry.    
  
Louis’ been driving for at least a mile, and he can’t find Harry. There’s no way he could have gotten very far, not in these conditions, but that doesn’t stop the rising panic that’s causing Louis’ heart to race. Rain beats down on the roof, the metallic pounding the only thing keeping him grounded. Keeping him focused, even as his desperation increases with each passing moment. He’s considering rolling down the window and shouting - no amount of bloody rain can keep him from finding Harry - when he sees a flash of silver in the trees.    
  
“Shit!” Hercules groans in protest as Louis abruptly shifts the gears and throws the old truck in reverse, coming to a stop at the edge of a ditch that contains a mud-covered motorcycle. A less mud-covered, but soaking wet Harry emerges from the trees, and everything slows down. It’s terribly inconvenient, that. Louis doesn’t have time for slow-motion, doesn’t have time to be struck dumb with his mouth hanging open. They’ve got to get home. He has to get Harry home. Back. Home. Whatever. They need to be somewhere that isn’t here, and the way he’s apparently gone into shock at the sight of the (possible) love of his life just won’t do.    
  
“Why are you here?” Harry shouts over the rain, thankfully breaking Louis out of his trance.    
  
“Isn’t it obvious?” He swings open the truck door grandly. “I’m here to rescue you.”   
  
There’s no answer, which has the unfortunate side-effect of drawing him back into that trance where all he does is drool at Harry, until he’s snapped out of it again when Harry, well, snaps, “What are you staring at?”   
  
“Nothing. Nothing, I… I’m really glad you’re okay.” Louis glances away and flushes. “Was worried.” Harry lets out a sigh like Louis’ rescue attempt has terribly inconvenienced him, and that’s just unacceptable. If anything, Harry’s the one who’s doing the inconveniencing; Louis should be throwing put-upon sighs at him. Not the other way round. “Shouldn’t have been out riding in this weather, nutter,” he finally says, because he has to, and winces as he asks, “What were you thinking?” in a tone that reminds him a bit too much of his mum.    
  
“Piss off,” Harry mutters, crossing his arms and pointedly not looking Louis’ way.    
  
“‘m serious; you could’ve got hurt.”   
  
“But I didn’t.”   
  
Louis rolls his eyes. He’s well familiar with Harry’s strops, but now is not the time. He’s soaked to the bone, and Harry appears to be in the same state. His hair is falling out of its bun, strands of it plastered to his forehead that Harry keeps trying to push back to no avail. His white t-shirt has gone sheer, and Louis can see his tattoos clearly through the wet fabric. It’s hard to ignore, the desire to reach out and touch. To trace the outline of the swallows; map the butterfly forever suspended in flight on his abdomen.    
  
“Stop staring,” Harry snaps.   
  
“Wasn’t,” Louis lies, refusing to feel ashamed. Harry fixes him with a look that conveys quite clearly just how full of shit he thinks Louis is, and Louis ignores him in favour of exiting the truck and stalking over to the fallen motorbike. He barely registers Harry’s shouted warning before the ground disappears underneath him and he finds himself on his back, sinking down into the sticky mud coating the forest floor.    
  
There’s a loud bark that Louis recognises as Harry’s laugh, because of course he bloody finds this humorous. To be fair, he’d been in stitches when the same thing had happened to Harry, but this is different. Probably. Harry wasn’t caught in a rainstorm, for one, and he’d been able to get clean quickly. Even if it’d been rushing the door to get past Louis. Louis’ got no such option. All he can do right now is lie here and accept his fate. And get Harry to shut up somehow, the hysterical giggles are beginning to get on his nerves.    
  
“Stop bloody laughing and help me up, arsehole.”   
  
“Absolutely not,” Harry replies, letting loose another fucking bark. “You’re just gonna pull me down, and I don’t want to get this shirt muddy; ‘s my favourite.” He fingers one of the safety pins holding the shirt intact, and Louis growls.    
  
“Help me,” he snaps, growling when Harry shakes his head smugly.    
  
“Nope.”   
  
Fine. Fine. If Harry won’t help him up, then Louis will just help him, well. Down. He waits until Harry’s fruitlessly swiping at his runaway hairs again, and flings a leg out as hard as he can. His foot hits its target with a satisfying thwack, and then Harry’s lying prone to Louis, naff boots too close to his face for comfort.    
  
“You could have fucking kicked me in the face!”    
  
“Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.” Harry sits up, looking murderous. “ _I_ could have kicked _you_? Really, Louis? _Really_?”   
  
“Yes, really. And I wasn’t aiming for your face, so.”   
  
“So,” Harry echoes. “So.”   
  
“So, you gonna help me up now? Since you’re already muddy, and all that.” He watches as Harry makes no move to get up, and pouts. “Please? We’ve got to get your motorbike back, anyway. If not for me, then do it to keep that thing from rusting or whatever it’ll do.”   
  
“Rust. It’ll rust. And fine, but only because I can’t lift it on my own.” Harry reaches a hand out, face impassive. Louis grips it, clinging tightly as he scrambles to stand. Time seems to slow down when Harry takes a step back, probably to brace himself, and loses his footing. Louis goes down with him, only this time he lands on his face.    
  
He swears, earning himself a mouthful of mud with only makes him swear louder. And get more mud in his mouth. When he rolls onto his stomach he’s met with the site of Harry facing the same predicament. “Bleeding hell,” he wheezes. “Bleeding, fucking hell, we’re never getting out of here, are we?” Wheezing sniggers give way to full-on howls. He’d be doubled-over if he wasn’t already flat on the ground, and when Harry raises his head, he’s laughing as well. Or crying. Louis can’t really tell the difference through the layer of mud coating his features.    
  
“Hands and knees?” Harry manages to choke out finally, and Louis smirks.    
  
“Cheeky, cheeky, Harold. Is it really the time for that?”   
  
“Piss off.” There’s no venom this time, and for the first time in 48 hours it feels like they might actually be okay. It’s a fucking relief, really; he hates fighting with Harry. All he wants to do now is get the bloody motorbike in the truck and head back before it gets dark. He wants to see the boys, wants to sit in front of the fire with his boy. Assuming he’s reading the situation right, of course. At the very least he’ll get to make s’mores after a long shower with the water as hot as it’ll go. Maybe he’ll ask Harry to join. Maybe not. Louis isn’t used to this feeling. Isn’t used to not being able to read Harry’s mood.    
  
The rain seems to die down before disappearing entirely. Louis refuses to acknowledge the metaphor. “Storm’s gone.”

Harry looks up, like he needs to check the sky for confirmation, and Louis steals a moment to just, like, stare a bit. It’s a bit of a throwback, seeing Harry like this. Mud-covered and disgruntled, that is. It not exactly his best look. Nevermind that Louis probably isn’t much better, but he’s definitely not wetter. His snort at the unintentional rhyme swings Harry’s gaze back to earth, and his lip twitches with the promise of a scowl. Louis doesn’t want to make him scowl. 

Louis doesn’t know what he wants, actually. 

Well, that’s not exactly true. What he wants is to be clean and dry and warm instead of muddy and soaking wet and  _ cold _ . He wants to be inside, he wants to be out of the storm, and he wants a bloody beer. Or a cuppa. Or both. 

He doesn’t want to be here; stood on the side of the road with the boy he’s more than half in love with. The same boy who managed to get his stupid motorbike stuck in a ditch (how?  _ how? _ ) because he’d thrown a strop and ran away. He doesn’t want to touch the motorbike, doesn’t know how they’ll even manage to move it, if he’s honest, and he really doesn’t want to drive back. It’d been easy before, his desire to find Harry overriding his immense dislike of driving in the rain, but he found Harry. It might not be raining anymore, but the roads are still slick, and Harry can’t drive the bloody truck, and Louis really doesn’t want to be here. 

He’d really rather not bear witness to the way Harry’s top clings to his body, half-translucent from the rain. Doesn’t want to watch the way Harry licks at his lips, and then tugs the lower one between his teeth. Louis wants to bite that lip. No.

No, Louis wants to go back to the house. No. 

No, Louis wishes he’d never come here at all, except he had to, of course he did. It’s beginning to scare him, really, the things he’d do for Harry. 

Louis is cold, and wet, and dirty and more than a little grumpy, and tired **tired** _ tired _ . He should be more angry with Harry, he thinks, except this is just as much his doing as it is Harry’s. But still. Louis doesn’t want to be here, in the woods in the mud in a ditch preparing to load Harry’s stupid motorbike into Hercules’ bed. 

And yet, he thinks, there isn’t any place he’d rather be. 

(That should scare him. But it doesn’t.)

(Not anymore.)

 

**~*~**

 

Louis can’t remember why he was dreading the drive back. 

They’d quickly discovered that the motorbike was too heavy to lift on their own, and for the first time in his life, probably, Louis can say his inability to put things away has helped instead of hurt a situation. For example: the ramp he’d used to transport the ride-on mower the other day is still in the truck bed. He’d tried not to appear surprised, wanted it to seem like he’d planned for this, and that it wasn’t sheer dumb luck coming to save the day. He wanted it to seem like he knew what he was doing, even if he didn’t, and apparently, Harry didn’t either. 

When Louis had questioned this - ‘but you own a bloody motorbike? - all he’d received in response was a sarcastic “I don’t just go around dumping my motorbike in random bloody ditches, you know. So, no, I don’t know how.” Under the sarcasm, Harry had sounded nervous, which made Louis want to be brave. Half because he wanted the bragging rights, and half because he’d always been fiercely protective of Harry. Probably always will be, if he’s honest. So, with more confidence than he’d currently been feeling, Louis had decided they were gonna make it work. 

He didn’t trust himself not to blurt out all the feelings swirling around in his brain, so he’d spent the next 20 odd minutes just… saying nothing.    
  
Well, nothing except “help me with this ramp” and “fucking hell, why does this thing weigh so much”, and a whole lot of far more colourful language that Harry pretended (or at least Louis thinks he was pretending) to reprimand him for.

Right now, however, he’s got bigger problems. 

Like the fact that he can’t drive and hold Harry’s hand at the same time, no matter how much Harry whinges. He also can’t touch Harry in any way - a cheeky hand on his thigh, for example - and concentrate, which is just supremely unfair. Harry takes matters into his own hands though - literally - and Louis learns that it’s just as hard to concentrate with a cheeky hand on  _ his  _ thigh, but there’s absolutely no way in hell he’ll admit that to Harry. Not even when Harry’s hand starts creeping closer and closer to his cock; the extra weight on the still wet fabric would be off-putting, only it’s Harry. 

Oh, Christ, it’s  _ Harry.  _

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Louis mutters, and shoves Harry’s hand away. “Gotta focus.”   
“Suppose that rules out road head.”

Louis hums. “Suppose it does.”

“Guess you’ll just have to wait ‘til we get back to the house, then,” Harry teases. “If we can make it there quick enough,” he adds. “Might have to make use of the empty cabins.” It’s breezy, and Louis knows he’s not serious, but only the worry that the cabins might contain spiders as well keeps him from entertaining that fantasy for too long. 

Louis doesn’t splutter, he  _ doesn’t _ . Like, to a casual observer, it might seem like he does, but he. He doesn’t. He stays dignified in the face of cocksucking propositions, Louis does. He even manages to keep the truck on the road. 

Well, sort of. 

(That had barely counted as a swerve.)

  
**~*~**

 

It’s raining again. 

It’s raining again, and Louis doesn’t even notice. Half because he’s shielded under the porch roof, and half because he’s too busy getting snogged and groped to care much about anything besides how good it feels to kiss Harry, how nice it is to be touched by him, and how much he’d really like to take off all their clothes. He shivers, this time because he’s getting cold, and he breaks the kiss to pant, “it’s fucking cold.”

Harry leans in to kiss him again, but Louis turns his head. “Cold,” he whines and squeezing his eyes shut as he shivers again. He misses Harry leaning in until there’s a weight against his forehead, and when he opens his eyes, Harry’s face is right there. Forehead pressed to his, and Louis doesn’t know where to look until he settles on the tip of Harry’s nose. 

He reckons he’s gone a bit cross-eyed, and that Harry’s probably in the same boat. The fact that he doesn’t want to take the piss, he thinks, is just another confirmation of the feelings he’d been working so hard to squash.    
“I don’t know what scared me more; the thought that I’d never see you again, or the thought that I might,” Harry tells him softly. 

Louis swallows. “Are you scared now?”

Harry tightens his hold on Louis, slipping one hand to cup his arse and pull him forward until he’s fully pressed against Harry. Louis lets himself be manhandled, and he’d be embarrassed about getting hard if he couldn’t already feel Harry’s own erection against his hip bone. “Never been less scared in my life, I reckon.”

Louis wants to ask if that’s a new development, if Harry had really been 100% fine the entire time Louis was dealing with his own fears, but that’s a conversation for another time. The fond look on Harry’s face warms him to his toes, makes him shiver a bit - from pleasure, not cold - and Louis hides his own face in Harry’s neck to hide the way it’s gone pink.    
  
“You have to kiss me now,” Louis says instead, as smugly as he can whilst trying to disguise the fact that he’s on the tips of his toes. “It’s in the script.”   
  
Harry’s startled laughter breaks the silence, and Louis is certain he’s never heard a more beautiful - and welcome - sound. “What script?”

“The script,” Louis repeats, because Harry’s seen enough bloody romcoms in his life to know how this goes.  _ Honestly _ . “Kissing comes after gross and soppy confessions. Everyone knows this.” 

Harry blinks. At least, it looks like he blinks. Could just be that the mud caked to his eyelids is too heavy to keep them open. Either way, the chances that he’s judging Louis with a look are high. “But we were kissing before I said anything. And you said gross soppy things, too,” he points out. 

“Take me to bed,” Louis says instead of admitting Harry’s right. “I was promised a blowie, or did you forget already?” He rolls his hips forward, letting Harry feel how badly he wants it. Harry groans, which could be either a confirmation or denial, except Louis doesn’t get a chance to ask. 

He doesn’t know what he expected Harry’s response to be, but he absolutely was not anticipating being swooped up bridal style by an overconfident Harry. He has reasons to be nervous - Harry’s never been the greatest at staying upright, and this week has been especially bad. (Not to mention their shoes are still covered in mud, and the wood of the porch is damp, and Louis can’t allow himself to fully relax into Harry’s arms until they’re stood - well, Harry’s stood - in the doorway to Louis’ bedroom. 

Harry doesn’t seem in a hurry to enter, so Louis takes a second to check for butterflies, or something. Nerves. Check for nerves, because he should be nervous, right? Only he finds that he isn’t, not even a little, and is more than ready to, well, do it. 

“Are you okay?”

Louis can’t see Harry’s face, he sounds concerned, and Louis suspects it’s been more than a second. Whoops. 

“Never better,” he says honestly, and Harry crosses the threshold. His grip on Louis doesn’t falter, which is impressive in Louis’ opinion. Until, at the last second, Harry slips and tosses, more than sets, Louis on the bed with a  _ whump _ .    
“You fucker.” Louis grunts. 

“Maybe later, darling.” Harry’s smirking, looks so fucking smug up there that Louis just wants to drag him down to his level. Or shut him up somehow.

(Which, after finally shimmying out of his wet clothing, is exactly what he does.) 

 

**~*~**

 

After, once they’ve cleaned up and stripped down and buried themselves under a mountain of blankets, Louis has so many things he wants to say. But Harry’s eyes are truly drooping now, his answers coming even slower than usual, so the words hang unspoken between them, a promise for the future. Something to discuss tomorrow, when they’re less sex-drunk and emotionally exhausted. 

What really matters, though, is that the words are there, the promise is there, and Louis is finally ready to accept it. He’s not scared, doesn’t want to hide, and the thought of Harry being his boyfriend still makes his heart pound but in a very different way. There’s a small part of him that’s sad they didn’t do this sooner, get their shit together and get together. Realistically, he suspects they needed this time apart, that it’ll make the rest of their time spent together even sweeter. Two years is nothing compared to all of the days they’ve got left. The weeks, the years, the  _ decades _ of potential. 

Realistically - because his brain can’t just let him enjoy this - he knows a future with Harry isn’t guaranteed, that it’ll take time and work and compromises to get there. Which is fine by him - like, honestly fine this time - 

In lieu of a response, Harry lets out a snore to rival the thunder outside, and Louis falls just that bit more in love with him. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/user/goldfishsunglasses/playlist/7DHg8ZPCSXFPsocHKWtfkN?si=dv-Qx1xKQbGxPHunlSrgDw) | [tumblr post #1](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/178386517142/it-had-all-seemed-so-simple-back-then-theyd-been) | [tumblr post #2](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/182251820666/falling-in-love-with-your-best-friend-a-days)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks as always to rainbowbaz for being and amazing beta and britpicker, amandaisnotwriting for the second beta and cosyblack for all your help <3
> 
> i can't believe it's finally done!!

After an emotional night filled with orgasms, discussions about the future, and much too little sleep, the last thing Louis wants is to be pulled from said sleep at the bleeding arse-crack of dawn. Thor apparently disagrees, and is doing his best to ensure Louis can’t fall back asleep. He’s almost howling now; it’s terribly inconvenient. And rude. Bloody dog needs to learn some manners, Louis thinks, as he groans and covers his face with a pillow. “Why does that bloody dog have to wake up so early?” 

Harry makes an incoherent noise that Louis chooses to take as an agreement before he abruptly sits up in bed. Thor is barking at the sound of a car engine, and Louis realises he managed to completely forget what day it is. 

“Haz.” He shoves Harry’s shoulder. “Haz!” Harry lets out something between a whine and a groan as Louis attempts to shake him awake. “ _ Haz _ ! Harry Hazza  _ babe _ . You need to get up. The boys are here, you’ve gotta get up.”

Louis ducks out of the way just in time to avoid being hit by the arm Harry flails in his general direction. Having missed its target, the arm comes his way again, and Louis takes it as a confirmation that he’ll be meeting the lads on his own. With one last look at the sleeping Harry in his bed - and not before kicking him in the ankle - Louis grabs the cleanest looking pair of pants on the bedroom floor (Harry’s) and the first shirt he sees (Also Harry’s). He tugs both articles of clothing on as quickly as possible, and decides he can’t put off going to the loo. (They can wait; nature calls.)

By the time he finally descends the stairs, Liam, Niall and Zayn have made themselves comfortable in the living room. Liam’s got Thor in his lap, Zayn’s messing around on his phone, and Niall is the first to notice Louis’ arrival. “Where’s Harry?”

Louis wasn’t expecting that question. He blinks and tries to look confused. “Who?”

“Louis.”

“Why would Harry be here? Harry isn’t here, don’t be daft, Nialler. Zayn, tell Niall not to be daft.”

“No.”

“Liam? Will you tell him?”

“Where’s Harry, Lou?” Liam asks, completely ignoring Louis’ wheedling. 

As if on cue, Harry appears in the doorway in all his naked and tattooed glory. He blinks slowly and grins when he realises who’s in the kitchen with Louis.

“Alright, lads?”

“Oh Jesus, Harry, put it away,” Niall groans. “No one wants to see that.”

“Speak for yourself,” Louis mutters, and then frowns. “Hang on, why don’t any of you look surprised? Aren’t you surprised he’s here? Did you— Bloody hell, did you do this?” He directs the last question at Liam, who tries his best to look innocent. Liam’s always had the worst poker face. Normally, it’s hilarious. It would be now, only Louis’ too close to the situation and the idea that Liam could have potentially given him a fucking heads up is irritating. 

“Calm your tits, Tommo,” Niall laughs, “Harry texted us the night he arrived.”

“Yeah,” Liam adds, nodding. “None of us knew he was coming this year, honest.”

Louis squints, because he’s not quite sure he believes them, but then he’s being pulled into a group hug - naked Harry and all - and it doesn’t really matter anymore. 

What matters is that his mates, his boys, are here, so for now he just lets himself be hugged. Enjoys the moment. 

(He can always bully the truth out of them later.)

**~*~**

A combined bout of nostalgia leads to the five of them taking a boat out onto the lake. Both Louis and Harry are hesitant about entering the boathouse again, and Louis forgets to warn Liam about the state of the inside before the doors are opened and there’s a giant crash and a yelp. Liam is okay, the boats are okay, but everyone still gives Louis crap for it anyway. Which is fine, really, as long as no one finds out the reason he and Harry never finished cleaning up the place. 

Apparently, Harry has no such worries, and Louis gets crap about that too. Which is also fine, as he wasn’t the only one running that day, and it’s because of the incident that he and Harry made up. So. 

(Anyway, Louis can give as good as he gets, and there’s plenty to give his mates shit for.) 

(Friendship is a truly beautiful thing.)

**~*~**

The woods are unfortunately too wet for the campfire they’d planned, but Liam, being Liam, takes charge of the situation and fires up Pat’s ancient charcoal grill. Louis elects himself supervisor, and sets up his post in a nearby deck chair. 

Watching Liam prep for their unplanned barbecue makes Louis think about the first and only time they did this before, years ago when they were younger and stupider.

Well, he thinks as he watches Niall smack Zayn with his own snapback, maybe not that much stupider. 

He’s also not the only one thinking about that day, apparently, because once Zayn regains ownership of the snapback, he sets it on his head backwards and smirks. “Hey, Haz, want some watermelon?”

“Fuck off,” Harry whines. He’s leaning on Niall, quite possibly on the verge of falling back asleep when Zayn elbows Niall and nearly knocks them both over. Niall retaliates by shoving Zayn which leads to Zayn shoving back which leads to Harry sitting on Zayn’s back while Niall pulls off his shoes and Liam attempts to regain peace by offering everyone second burgers if they’ll just bloody let him concentrate on preparing the first batch.

Louis finds it all terribly amusing, and is about to join in on the fun when Zayn manages to free himself and comes over to sit next to Louis.

“Alright, mate?”

Louis nods, and reaches over to fetch the chocolate bars Liam had brought when he’d assumed they’d have a campfire. He’s not sure how it’ll work with the grill, but he wants something to do with his hands because he suspects he knows why Zayn wants to talk to him. Zayn doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, though, taking his time to get comfortable and light a cigarette as Louis waits for the ball to drop. 

“You and Harry then,” he says finally. “You together now?”

Louis focuses on meticulously breaking the chocolate into squares. “Er, yeah. We might’ve discussed it.”

“Discussed it your way, or discussed it the normal, healthy way?”   


“Um.” The chocolate crumbled between his fingers. “Both?”

Zayn doesn’t say anything else, which means he’s waiting for Louis to ‘fess up and doesn’t feel like forcing it out of him. 

Louis gives up on the chocolate, and looks over Zayn’s shoulder to where Harry’s sitting with Niall. Somehow they’d managed to swipe the marshmallows when Louis wasn’t paying attention, and Harry’s cheering Niall on as he attempts to shove as many in his mouth as possible. Louis can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face, and Zayn turns his head, probably to see what’s got Louis’ attention. 

Harry - ever the competitive one - has started stuffing his own mouth with marshmallows. Somehow, the way his cheeks are puffed out, chipmunk smile, isn’t off-putting despite how unattractive it is. He must feel Louis’ eyes on him, because they lock eyes, and Harry smiles triumphantly around the marshmallows. Louis shoots him a thumbs up and a grin, and Zayn snorts. 

“Your boy is disgusting, bro.”

“Yeah,” Louis says fondly. “Yeah, he is.” He leans back in the chair and looks around at his boys. For a moment he can see a glimpse of their teenage selves. It’s gone as quick as it comes, but the feeling of contentment and nostalgia lingers, settling over him like a warm blanket. Like a reassurance. Things are good. Things are so good. He’s got his boy, and his boys, and - until his aunt returns - the world’s greatest dog at his feet, and he sort of wants it to be like this always. 

He knows that it can’t be, that they’ve all got lives to get back to. He doesn’t know how they’ll top this weekend next year, but if there’s one thing he’s absolutely sure of, it’s that Harry will be there with him. Because, if this week has taught him anything, it’s that no matter what happens, no matter where they go, they’ll always find their way back home. 

(That’s the plan, after all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/user/goldfishsunglasses/playlist/7DHg8ZPCSXFPsocHKWtfkN?si=dv-Qx1xKQbGxPHunlSrgDw) | [tumblr post #1](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/178386517142/it-had-all-seemed-so-simple-back-then-theyd-been) | [tumblr post #2](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/182251820666/falling-in-love-with-your-best-friend-a-days)

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog the tumblr post here!](http://velvetnoodle.tumblr.com/post/178386517142/it-had-all-seemed-so-simple-back-then-theyd-been)


End file.
